


Long and Lost

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Cursed!Killian, Emma Swan's journey, F/M, Gen, Gen fic with a dash of Captain Swan, Young Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Young Emma Swan, spoilers: Neal Nolan actually has a decent name
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2018-05-05 12:57:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 63,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5376059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was born for this, but birthdays came and went for seventeen years and nothing ever happened. She had thought the curse was only a long lost memory, naïve as she was. That, somewhat, the Evil Queen had forgotten about her revenge, forgotten about them. How wrong she was – prophecies are always true, even the ones that name you The Savior of all the realms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> you know when you’ve been planning a fic for so long you just lose your mind and go “aaaaaaah” because the pressure is so big? well, imagine that for a year and a half, because that’s how long it took me to turn this into a multichapter

Emma wakes up before the bells sound.

It is not a slow process – she wakes up with a jerk, breathless and panting, the telltale prickle of magic bringing a cold shiver down her spine. She blinks away the darkness of her bedchamber, only the moon casting its slivery shadow inside the castle. Everything is quiet, still, but not for long. She can feel it under her skin, the goosebumps on her arms onlya physical evidence of what her mind speaks to her. Danger, death – _curse_.

“Killian,” she says, perhaps a little softer than necessary, as she shakes his shoulder. “Killian, wake up.”

He does so in a mumble of a groan, a wordless question muffled against the fabric of his pillow. Even so, he raises his head, confused and still half-asleep. The sigh of it would warm her heart were it not for the urgency of the moment. So Emma forces herself not to dwell on his messy hair or on the wrinkles of the pillow on his cheek as she shakes his shoulder once more, as to wake him up fully. Killian frowns at the world, then turns his head and frowns at her, still as lost as a few seconds ago.

“Something is happening,” she tells him, unwillingly cryptic.

Because something is happening, indeed, but there is no way of knowing what beside the suspicion settling in her mind. Something is happening, indeed, when the bells sound high above their heads and startle them both into action. Killian jumps to his feet, offering his naked backside to her, but Emma doesn’t have the luxury of blushing, or even remembering the events of last night, as she follows him and grabs her nightgown where it fell on the floor. She pulls it above her head swiftly, slips into her riding boots, then looks around for her sword.

Her lady mother would throw a tantrum if she knew the crown princess keeps weapons in her chambers, but it proves itself useful in times of crisis. Not that times of crisis happen every other day in Mist Haven, the queendom peaceful for almost two decades now, ever since –

Emma’s eyes widen at the thought and, all thoughts of her sword gone, she runs to the window. She opens it and gasps at the sight that welcome her in the distance – smoke heavy and purple above the forest, sizzling like a hundred small thunderstorms and looming closer and closer to the castle.

“The curse,” she thinks, and perhaps says out loud.

Loud enough for Killian to hear, since he rushes by her side as he buttons the shirt of his uniform. His eyes widen too, at the threatening cloud, before he swears under his breath – something he almost never does, but desperate times do indeed call for desperate measures. When he looks back at her, it’s with widening eyes and Emma sees the fear settling in them, along with no small amount of determination.

“We need to go to the wardrobe,” she tells him as she forces herself to move again.

She finds her sword where it rests next to her cloak in a corner, and straps it around her hips. Killian does the same, grabbing his own sword and putting on his shoes all at once. They both make their way to the door in a hurry when someone knocks on it, strongly enough for it to rattle in its hinges.

“Your Highness!” Roland’s voice comes from the other side, loud, hurried, but mostly panicked. “Your Highness, wake up now!”

She opens the door, effectively startling him. “I know.”

His eyes dart back and forth between Emma and Killian for a second, no doubt taken aback by the lieutenant’s presence in the princess’s chambers that late at night – but Roland has always been a pragmatic man, the reason why he makes such a good guard despite his upbringing, so he shrugs off everything else to focus on the priorities of the moment. Mainly, bringing Emma to her old nursery safe and sound.

Which is no easy task, for they find themselves nose to nose with Black Guards when they round a corner, and Emma barely has time to grab her sword that they are already fighting back. She manages to stop a blow before it slices her arm, then sets into motion with the ease of someone who has been doing this for years. Of course, her opponents are more ruthless than her master of arms could ever be, but the adrenaline of the moment helps fighting back until the five men are lying on the ground, unconscious.

Emma wipes the sweat away from her forehead and tries to regulate her breathing, but she doesn’t have time for her heart to beat slower when the nursery is still two corridors away and the Evil Queen seems to want her not to reach it. Understandingly – annoyingly so. So Emma heaves a sigh and glances to Killian before she steps over one of the guards she just defeated.

Both he and Roland follow suit, footsteps echoing eerily in the empty corridors. Emma tries not to focus on it too much, lest she drives herself mad with worry, but she still has a thought for her family, wonders where they are right now. She refuses to think the Black Guards found them first – her mother is too good of a fighter to go down that easily, and so Emma focuses on that thought as she grips the pommel of her sword a little tighter, knuckles turning white.

She frowns when she finally reaches the old nursery, the one that hasn’t been used in many years. It was too easy, is the only thing she thinks as she raises her sword before opening the door. Only darkness and silence welcome her, the bells still tolling high above her head. The wardrobe is as she remembers, towering in a corner of the room and surrounded by an army of toys and plush animals. A little dusty, perhaps, but Emma brushes her fingers against the door, the lightest of caresses, and she feels the magic of the wood coming to life beneath her fingertips. It makes her smile, even if the curl of her lip is bittersweet on her mouth.

She was born for this, but birthdays came and went for seventeen years and nothing ever happened. She had thought the curse was only a long lost memory, naïve as she was. That, somewhat, the Evil Queen had forgotten about her revenge, forgotten about them. How wrong she was – prophecies are always true, even the ones that name you The Savior of all the realms.

“Emma, love.” Killian’s hand rests on the small of her back, and she looks up at him, her eyes as wide as his are full of sorrow. “You need to go before it’s too late.”

“I need–” she starts, remembering the second part of the prophecy. “Killian, I need–”

“Roland is taking care of that.”

And, indeed, when Emma looks around her, she only finds the old crib in a corner, Roland nowhere to be seen. She wants to heave a sigh of relief, but her eyes catch a shadow in the corner, and she rises her sword once more with a scream on her lips. But the Black Guard barely makes three steps toward them before suddenly stopping, eyes going glassy as he falls to his knees and reveals Emma’s father behind him, sword raised above his head.

He looks down at the guard, then up to his daughter. “Why are you still here?” he all but yells at her before another wave of guards enter the room.

The same deadly dance starts again, Emma and Killian raising their sword in one motion to help her father take care of the enemies. She almost loses her balance once or twice, the entire castle shaking with the strength of the curse, but always manages to find her footing just in time not to be harmed by a Black Guard’s sword. She defeats one, and probably kills another one if the weird angle of his neck is anything to go by, before someone grabs her and pulls her away from the fight.

“Emma, you need to go,” her father tells her in the voice he only uses with King George and lords he doesn’t like – the voice of a King not to be contradicted. “ _Now_.”

“But Papa–”

She chokes on a sob, the end of her sentence dying on her lips as her father pushes her toward the wardrobe before surging back into battle. She stumbles against the wardrobe, but watches in horror as a guard attacks her father when he leastexpects it, sword slicing through his side like a knife through butter. The scream is out of her mouth before she can swallow it, and Killian turns his head to her, then to her father, before jumping between him and the guard. All he needs is one blow for the guard to fall, dead or unconscious, before he looks back to Emma – his ponytail long gone, hair falling in his eyes in sweaty strands, blood staining his uniform.

“Papa!” she screams again, even as Killian comes to grab her by the waist so she doesn’t throw herself at her father. “Papa, no! Let me go! He needs me, he needs–”

Killian doesn’t let her go, not even when she claws at his arms, his shoulders, kicking his shins in hope the pain she inflicts on him will make him loosen his hold around her body. But he barely moves, and instead jerks the wardrobe’s door open while she sobs against his chest.

“I can save him. Just a little magic and–”

“ _You have to go_ ,” Killian tells her as he all but shoves her inside the wardrobe.

It’s almost too small for her body now, and she has to kneel inside, both so she doesn’t bump her head and because it allows her to grab Killian’s shoulders more easily.

“I can’t do this. I’m not ready.”

He cups her face between his hands, presses his lips to her forehead in a kiss. His eyes are frightened when he looks at her, rimmed around the edges with tears he refuses to shed in front of her, but there is pride in his blue pupils too, confidence, love. Her nails dig into the fabric at his shoulders under the strength of such a gaze, her body swaying on the spot.

“You will save us all, Emma. It was written, and there is no one else I trust with such a task.”

“I can’t – I don’t–” She looks above his shoulder, panicking once more when her eyes only meet darkness. “I need–” Her sentence ends in a cough as purple smoke enters the room, her eyes widening some more.

“Roland,” he reminds her, fighting a cough of his own. “But you need to go now before it is too late, love.”

“I – I can’t–”

She coughs once more, fingers failing to grip Killian’s jacket when he leans away from her. She wants to keep him close, refuses to let the curse take him – but it’s too late, the curse already there, and she coughs against it as she looks up to Killian, forces herself to remember every detail of his face. The scar of his cheek, the blue of his eyes, the hair falling on his forehead, precious memories she brands into her mind as he closes the door of the wardrobe on her.

A bolt of lightening cracks into the distance, smoke fills her lungs.

After that, there is only darkness.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reactions to the prologue have been overwhelming to say the least (and I’m not freaking out at all ahah) so thanks everyone for reading and enjoying and all the reblogs, likes, subscriptions, follows, favs, and everything. it warms my little heart that you’re taking a leap of faith on this story, and I hope you’ll enjoy the first chapter and all the other ones to come

Emma’s weight pulls her forward, closer to the ground that she would like, as her foot gets stuck under the root of a tree. Her arms move to break her fall before she actually touches the ground, jolts of electricity travelling from her wrist to her shoulders. The air leaves her lungs in a groan, her chest colliding with the ground painfully and her eyes closing under the pain. She stays that way for long second, mud already caking her cheek and her hair, prickles and twigs hurting her neck, her knees, her legs.

She mentally checks each and every one of her muscles, wiggling her toes inside her sleepers, but despite the knowledge that she will be sore in a few hours she is otherwise alright. So she propels herself up until she sits on her heels, and glares behind her.

A large oak looms over her, but there is no sign as to why she fell, or even how she found herself here in the first place. It is that second thought that makes Emma frown, because – why is she here, exactly? There might be some reason as to why she would be in the middle of the forest, only wearing her nightgown and slippers. But the answers don’t come, and she frowns some more. Perhaps she hit her head when she fell, even if she didn’t notice at first.

She raises a hand to her forehead, pressing her fingers here and there. She only manages to dirty them some more, with mud instead of blood, so she might not be hurt. Just confused, which doesn’t make sense and – well, only adds to her confusion.

A sound startles her then, coming from her left. A car, her memory provides a second later – the word familiar, but also foreign, new. Probably just her concussion, Emma thinks as she rises on unsteady legs. Her nightgown is torn at the hem, and dirty with more than mud – some of the brown verging on the crimson of dried blood. She gasps, and checks her own body, with her eyes and her hands. She doesn’t find a single wound, though, only scratches and bruises. Some she must have gotten when she fell, some that look older, already the ugly yellow shade of healing bruises.

Straightening her gown once more, Emma makes a hesitant step toward the left. Her legs tremble under her weight, but she keeps her balance – it might not be much, but it’s something, and she walks with more assurance after only a few seconds. She finds a road soon enough, black and long and empty, stretching to the left and to the right until it loses itself into the trees. Emma stares, unable to choose which way to go – she needs to go somewhere, at least, needs to find someone, anyone.

Her hand shoots to her throat, fingers wrapping around the pendant that rests between her collarbones. She plays with it for a few seconds, a habit she doesn’t remember getting in the first place but one that soothes her too. Left, she decides, for no particular reason. She’ll go left, and sees what happens.

As it turns out, Emma doesn’t have to wait long. A car appears in front of her, its engine less startling than the one she heard earlier, and stops next to her. It’s big, and green, and an old lady jumps out of the passenger side immediately.

“Oh, my poor dear!” she says, her eyes widening at the sight of Emma. “My poor, poor dear. Richard, come and help me!”

She has a kind face, wrinkled by the years but gentle – her blue eyes shine with worry as she comes closer to Emma, and her hands are warm when she rubs them against Emma’s bare arms. The one she called Richard, her husband most likely, is just as old and just as kind, shrugging off his fleece jacket so he can wrap it around Emma’s shoulders.

She numbly slips her arms through the sleeves, hugging the jacket closer to her as to warm her body. Her fingers barely peek out from the sleeves and she hides her red nose in the collar, letting the woman rub her arms some more.

“What’s your name, darling?”

“Emma,” she replies simply. Her voice is hoarse, like she hasn’t spoken in a very long while or has screamed too much lately, and maybe one of those is true but Emma just doesn’t remember.

It dawns on her, then, when the older woman asks, “What happened to you?” It dawns on her that she doesn’t remember why her voice is hoarse, doesn’t remember how she found herself in the forest, where she is coming from, what she is doing here. She frowns, and racks her brains, but comes up empty which each question she asks herself, save a few pieces of information.

Her name is Emma. She will be eighteen in two months. Her favourite colour is the blue of the morning sea. And – this is it. This is all she has, all she can remember, and her hand shoots to her throat once more, her fingers grabbing the pendant around her neck as panic rises within her. Why can’t she remember? What is wrong with her? She should remember, everyone remembers who they are. She knows her name, and when she was born, but there might be more. There is more.

Her parents – her – her mother – she has a mother, right? Everyone has a mother. And a father. And a house, perhaps even pets, family, friends. A life, somewhere, anywhere. A mother – a – a mother who kisses her goodnight every evening, a father who chased away the monsters under her bed but – that’s not it.

It doesn’t seem right.

It doesn’t ring a bell at all.

She tugs on her necklace until the chain bites the skin of her neck, her breathing shallow and difficult. “I – I don’t remember – I,” she tries, but a sob gets stuck at the back of her throat, swallowing her words. “Why can’t I remember?”

The woman shushes her softly, in what Emma supposes to be a soothing voice, but it has little effect on her when she lets the panic overwhelm her, when she lets the tears run freely down her cheeks. She gets pulled into a hug, hand drawing circles on her back as she sobs into a stranger’s neck.

“We need to go to the police,” the man says.

The woman doesn’t reply, but she nods with her cheek pressed to Emma’s head. She doesn’t move, though, not until Emma’s tears dry in her eyes, not until Emma’s fingers untighten their hold on the back of her coat. Only then does the woman step away, if only to cup Emma’s cheek and look her in the eyes. Her features are still gentle, even if concern and pity can be read in her eyes too – Emma can’t particularly fault her for that, she does make quite the pitiful sight after all.

“Come on, darling. We’ll find some help.”

It’s warm inside the car, and Emma curls up against the back seat, looking out the window – it’s only forest from miles on end, trees after trees after trees. The radio plays some country music, and the woman turns around in her seat to hand her a small bottle of water as well as a cereal bar. Emma swallows them both down in seconds, her stomach rumbling for more food already – when was her last meal? Why can’t she remember something as basic as _eating_?

She’s still trying to remember even the smallest crumble of a memory, ten minutes later, when the forest turns into fields, and then into the streets of a small town. They pull in front of a white building, the golden star reading some unknown town’s sheriff station, and Emma gets out of the car slowly, carefully. But the woman smiles and nods at her, so Emma follows her inside.

The sheriff station is empty but for three cops sitting at their desks, all of them raising their heads at the newcomers. The closer to them is a black woman, and she motions for them to come closer and sit in front of her.

“We found her on the side of the road. She doesn’t remember anything.”

The policewoman raises an eyebrow, but it’s more curiosity than disbelief, and it turns into something akin to concern when she takes Emma in – dirty hair and torn-up dress and muddy sleepers and everything.

“What’s your name?” she asks, not unkind but a little stiff.

“Emma – just – just Emma.”

“And how old are you?”

“Eighteen,” she lies. The woman’s eyebrow almost reaches her hairline, at that point, so Emma corrects, “I’ll be eighteen in two months.”

“I’ll need to call child services,” the policewoman comments. “But first, tell me what happened.”

Emma fidgets on the spot, grabbing her necklace once more – she decided she wouldn’t question that habit, not yet at least – when she feels the stares of the other two policemen on her. It was to be expected, of course, but it still makes her uneasy and she is at lost for words. So she swallows around the knot in her throat and looks down to her feet, not knowing what to do.

“Emma,” the policewoman says, and Emma raises her name to the sound of her name. “Do you want us to talk in private?”

Her eyes widen at the underlying meaning of the woman’s question, but she shakes her head anyway. “No, no, I’m fine. I just really don’t remember what happened. Just – I fell on the ground in the middle of the forest. That’s all. Nothing else.”

The policewoman doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t look _unconvinced_ either, and she spends another few minutes asking Emma questions she doesn’t have the answers to. It is frustrating, but compulsory, so she goes through it without a complaint as she tries to be as helpful as possible in her lack of answers. The policewoman does indeed call child services next, and thanks the elderly couple for their help, before she shows Emma to a tiny bathroom where she washes her face in the sink and changes her clothes. It’s a pair of sweatpants too big for her, and a large t-shirt with the sheriff station’s logo on the back, but it’s better and warmer than her night clothes, so once again Emma doesn’t complain. She’s even fed, and taken care of, until an hour later a woman enters the station.

She works for the child services and asks Emma the exact same questions the policewoman did, and Emma is only mildly annoyed at not having the answers. It is like she jumped over all the stages of grief and settled for acceptance immediately because – well, because it’s easier that way, maybe. (Does it sound like denial? Oh well.)

They don’t find her in their missing person records, or any kind of records really, and so soon enough the woman from child services asks Emma to follow her. There is no point in staying at the station any longer, after all, so Emma climbs into yet another car driving her gods know where.

She dozes off after a while, lulled to sleep by the soft music on the radio and her own exhaustion, only to wake up with a startle, lost and confused. They’ve entered a city, a bigger one this time, and the woman explains her that a doctor will check up on her before she is sent to a group home for the night, and they will decide what to do in the morning – which means a lot, but also nothing at all. Emma just nods and goes with the flow, because it’s easier that way.

She coughs when the doctor listens to her lungs, agrees to be measured and weighed, examined. The doctor frowns at her bruises, but doesn’t comment, only takes notes on a pad Emma isn’t able to see. Denial leaves place to frustration, and she wonders if this is the kind of woman she is; little patience and a quick temper.

Maybe, who knows.

 

…

_His hand is warm against hers, fingers entwined as they rest on her lap. It is the most intimate displays of affection they can allow, Granny looking over them like a hawk – the queen couldn’t have chosen more threatening a chaperone for Emma’s courtship. It does make Emma uncomfortable, knowing her every move is watched, her every choice will be reported to her lady mother later today. She understands why, of course, but this lack of freedom doesn’t make it any less acceptable in her eyes._

_“How was your journey?” she asks, her thumb drawing circles on the back of his hand._

_“It was fine, thank you for your concern.” Killian’s ears are pink, no doubt with the embarrassment of being stared at. “We were afraid we wouldn’t come back before the winter ball, but Poseidon was on our side it seems.”_

_Emma can only smile at that comment. She has never been a religious person, even if she sometimes visits Athena’s temple with her mother, as well as Artemis’, but Killian is like many other sailors out there – he respects Poseidon above all the other gods, careful never to bring his wrath on the Jewel of the Realm. An old superstition, like there are so many others among the men of her mother’s Royal Navy – Emma has already met the big tabby cat they keep on board, for luck and chasing rodents. And it would be lying that to say grabbing Killian by the collar didn’t bring luck to her life – as well as love, happiness._

_“Poseidon is always on your side,” she beams at him. “He saw what a great sailor you are, and is now taking care of you.”_

_Killian’s blush spreads to his cheeks and his neck as he ducks his head, embarrassed by her praises. But he_ is _one of the best sailors in the Royal Navy, even the Admiral will admit to that, and Emma can only be proud of him – as he of her when she tells him of her royal meetings and diplomatic visits to foreign kingdoms._

_“You are too kind,” he replies, his fingers squeezing hers before he lets go of her hand._

_Her skin feels cold already without his touch, and she forces herself not to grab his hand again, lest she looks too eager – her mother’s voice rings to her mind, lessons of etiquette she heard too many times through the years. But her disappointment gives place to excitement as Killian reaches inside the pocket of his uniform – he loves to bring her tokens from his travels, shiny rocks and seashells and other little things from far away kingdoms, places she’ll never get to visit herself._

_But it is not one of his usual tokens Killian presents to her that day. No, it is a silver necklace, shining in the morning sun, and Emma gasps when she reaches for it and gets a closer look. Two little charms dangle from the chain, on top of each other – one is a ship’s wheel while the other is a little swan with its wings spread out. It’s so perfect – so perfectly_ them _– that Emma can only stare in awe at the necklace for long seconds._

_“Do you like it?” Killian asks then._

_“I love it!”_

_She beams at him before turning around and bundling her hair up so Killian can clasp the necklace around her neck. The charms rest between her collarbones, just above the hem of her dress, and Emma brushes her fingers against the cold silver, grinning at Killian once more._

_“It is no ring yet but – that way you can remember me even when I am away.”_

_It is no ring yet because his official courtship started not so long ago, and it would be bad form for him to cut corners and propose before it is time – but he will propose, somewhere in a near future, and this token of his love is only further proof of that. If Emma were to decide to wear the necklace in public, and she will, it would be enough for other suitors to back off, for them to know her heart is already taken, even if her hand may not be yet._

_“I don’t need jewellery to have you on my mind,” she replies honestly._

_He has been on her mind a lot, ever since their first meeting – even more so since the ball thrown before his crew left for a mission, where he had stolen a kiss under the stars. Her lady mother and her aunt Red have scheduled afternoon teas with other suitors during his absence, but it was hard for Emma to pretend to like their advances when she could only think of the next time she would see Killian._

_The queen must have taken the hint, for the meetings with new suitors stopped a few weeks ago – even a blind man would see Killian is the perfect prospect for Emma anyway, as great a fit for the crown princess as they go. Kind, sensible, polite, well-raised – many are the qualities that would make him a good prince consort and an even better partner._

_“I am glad to hear that,” Killian replies._

_He can’t suppress a grin of his own now, dimples flashing on his cheeks, and it takes all of Emma’s self-control not to press her fingers to the little indent at the corners of his mouth, not to steal another kiss from him. Granny is still watching, after all, so instead Emma turns her head to the side, tilting it ever so to offer her cheek to Killian._

_He brushes his lips to it, lingering for longer than decency would like – for longer than Granny likes, for she coughs loudly, forcing them to lean back. His cheeks are a beautiful shade of crimson but his eyes shine too, love and happiness dancing in the blue of his pupils._

_“You are always on my mind, too.”_

 

…

 

Emma’s sleep is restless that night. Her limbs are sore, as was expected, and the mattress is hard, uncomfortable. Another girl in the dorm snored all through the night, waking Emma up several times. When she does manage to sleep, nightmares come to plague her – only flashes of light and colours, sounds, feelings. Nothing tangible, and nothing she remembers in the morning. She is as exhausted as she was before going to bed, and it makes for sluggish movements and slow reactions.

Which is how, after a breakfast of cereals and milk, Emma finds herself in the office of the woman who took care of her the previous day, sitting in a chair just as uncomfortable as her bed, and having a conversation that is even more uncomfortable, if only that is possible. They go through another round of questions and non-answers, as if memories could come back to Emma during the night, and Emma grows frustrated all over again.

“What’s that necklace?” the woman asks all of a sudden, and Emma startles.

She’s been playing with it again, all through their discussion, without even noticing she was doing it. She has done it more than once this morning – waiting for breakfast, and then later under the shower, even before meeting with the woman. She still can’t explain why, but the necklace seems important to her, _is_ important to her. If only she could remember why, or even where she got it from – did she buy it herself? No, she seems too attached to it, it must have been a gift. So why isn’t anyone looking for her now, why didn’t anyone tell the police she’s missing?

“It’s, I don’t know, it’s a swan.”

She lets go of the necklace, self-conscious, and sits on her hands instead.

“A swan, huh? Maybe it represents you, you seem graceful.”

“Swans are assholes,” Emma shoots back immediately – it startles the woman into a bemused snort. “But they mate for life, right?”

“I think so. Maybe you have a boyfriend or a girlfriend out there.”

Emma wrinkles her nose – if she really had a loved one out there, why haven’t they shown up yet? It’s the same old question all over again, and she’s tired of thinking about it. She’s tired of thinking that some facts seem to point to a loving family, to her having a nice childhood, when nobody is actually looking for her, when according to the policewoman yesterday Emma doesn’t even seem to exist.

If someone loved her, Emma would remember, right? The necklace looks expensive, and it’s not everyone who would buy a teenager such beautiful pieces of jewellery. But things don’t add up, and nothing makes sense. Nothing makes sense at all, and she is even more exhausted just trying to find logic in this thing she should now call her life.

“It’s not rare to have amnesia after a trauma. Your memories should be back soon.”

Emma wants to laugh at the woman’s face, or even scream at her about that trauma apparently so traumatizing she doesn’t even remember it. The woman knows nothing, absolutely nothing, and her useless comments aren’t helping in the least with Emma’s cloudy mind. So Emma leaves the office and goes back to the main room.

During the days that come, she mostly keeps to herself. One of the other girls in the group home is obviously a bully, but she is also younger and a few inches smaller than Emma, and clever enough not to start a fight she probably wouldn’t even win. The other girls are younger still, but shy and quiet too, so Emma just grabs a book and reads in a corner by herself. It makes for long days, lonely and boring, but she likes it better that way for some reason.

On the fourth day, she is told they found a foster family for her to stay until she’s eighteen, and that she needs to pack her stuff. Emma raises an unimpressed eyebrow at the ratty PJs they gave her, as well as the t-shirt from the police department – her only belongings with the pair of jeans and pink hoodie she’s wearing, and the bra too small for her that keeps biting her skin under the arms. But she doesn’t comment and does as she’s told, before she goes to the living room.

The woman – _her foster mother_ – is already waiting, and she stands up when Emma enters the room. She’s beautiful, breathtakingly so. She can’t be forty yet, her features still soft despite the hint of wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, and her hair is the same shade of blonde as Emma’s – they could pass off as mother and daughter, probably, a thought that brings a shiver of dread down Emma’s spine.

“Hello Emma,” the woman says, with a kind smile and even kinder voice. “I’m Ingrid.”

“Hi,” she replies awkwardly, not knowing what to do, what to say.

But as it turns out, she doesn’t have to say nor do much, for Ingrid checks the last paperwork with the woman from child services, before she shows Emma to her car. The drive to Ingrid’s house is spent in tense silence, only broken once in a while by short bits of conversation – mostly her asking if Emma is allergic to anything (she doesn’t remember) or what her favourite food is (she doesn’t remember either). Ingrid gives up after a few attempts, and Emma leans her head against the window, staring at the landscape until she dozes off.

They’re in the suburb of Augusta by the time Emma opens her eyes again, rows and rows of houses that all look the same until Ingrid pulls over in front of one. It looks just like the others, pastel blue door and beige curtains. _Home_ , Emma thinks with a sigh as she steps out of the car and looks up at the windows of the second floor. It’s better than nothing, of course, way better than the group home, but it still doesn’t feel right to her – like she was thrown in a life that doesn’t belong to her, and she now has to deal with what she got.

So she does just that, letting Ingrid show her around the house. There are several bedrooms for kids, but Emma is the only one to stay in the house for now, so she can pick whichever room and bed she wants. She chooses the little room with the green walls and the white comforter, and she takes a shower before meeting with Ingrid in the living room for lunch. She stays under the water for longer than is truly necessary – they weren’t allowed to take long showers in the group home, and it was always lukewarm, unpleasant. Now, she carefully combs out her hair with her fingers, and shampoos it until there are bubbles everywhere.

She smells like soap and cleanliness when she wraps herself in a towel and dries her skin. Her clothes are still the same, though, and she’ll need to wash them eventually. Her wet hair soaks the back of her shirt a little when, finally, she goes downstairs and finds Ingrid in the kitchen. The older woman kindly smiles at her above her shoulder, before focusing back on her cooking.

“I’m making grilled cheese, is that okay?”

Emma shrugs, before she remembers Ingrid can’t see her. “I guess,” she replies then, because there is no good nor wrong answer at this point.

“Okay,” Ingrid laughs, before she points out to a mug on the kitchen counter. “I made you hot cocoa, too.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

The mug is hot against her fingers when she grabs it, the smell of the drink rich and intense. Ingrid added some whipped cream on top of it, and it’s slowly melting into the chocolate but – it feels wrong, like something is missing. Emma looks around her, frowning at the kitchen appliances, before her eyes fall on the spice rack in the corner. She grabs one of the boxes, and sprinkles some cinnamon on top of her drink.

“Hot cocoa with cinnamon, huh?”

“It feels right,” is the only answer Emma finds because – well, it does.

“It’s good. It means some memories are coming back to you already.”

 

…

_Emma rises on her tiptoes, grabbing the kitchen counter to propel herself up, still too little to really see anything at all. Her mother laughs before she scoops her up and sits her on the table – her little feet kicking the air as she watches her mother go back to her cooking. She pours milk in the pan, as well as a good amount of cocoa powder, stirring and stirring until it makes a beautiful brown liquid. It makes Emma’s mouth water just looking at it._

_“Now you see,” Snow White explains as she keeps stirring. “When I was a little girl like you, my mama would make me hot cocoa. And her mama made her hot cocoa too, and her mama’s mama, and…”_

_“Wooow!”_

_Snow White laughs, before she adds, “But you can’t drink too much, because then it will hurt your tummy a lot.”_

_She tickles Emma’s stomach, just above the navel, and Emma squirms a little, giggles tumbling out of her mouth as she tries to escape her mother’s hand. Snow White stops then, making sure her daughter isn’t about to fall down the counter, before she takes the pan away from the fire and pours the hot chocolate in several mugs._

_Emma saw the ship making port in the morning, her father having taken her to the harbour so she could admire the big, white sails and impressive cordage. The ship was coming back all the way from Agrabah, or so her father had told her, a land where it is always hot and sunny, where the ground is made of sand instead of grass, with no forests but palm trees instead. Emma is fascinated by the tales, faraway lands she wants to visit once she grows older, bolder._

_For now, she is stuck in the castle with her riding lessons and her boring tutors, but at least her mother_ _makes_ _the family hot chocolate with the cocoa beans that came in the ship’s hull._

_“And now here’s the secret ingredient,” Snow White goes on._

_She puts a finger in front of her mouth with a low ‘shhh’ and Emma mirrors her, her finger a little crooked and pressed to the side of her nose. Her mother grabs a little metal box and opens it, showing its_ _contents_ _to Emma – brown powder, not as dark at the cocoa one, which Snow White grabs between her fingers and then sprinkles on top of each drink._

_“Cinnamon. That, my darling girl, is true magic.”_

_“Magic!” Emma chirps back happily. She has seen magic already, if only because aunt Red turns into a wolf sometimes – her snout is warm and her fur soft, and Emma loves to cuddle against her in the cold of winter, when she feels sleepy. Magic exists, everywhere, and Emma is always fascinated by it – papa says he and mama have magic of their own, even if Emma doesn’t understand what it means yet._

_Snow White pokes her daughter’s nose with her finger. “Magic indeed, my darling.”_

…

 

Since she is above seventeen, Emma isn’t enrolled in the nearby school, and it takes her about a week to find a little job at a coffee shop in the neighbourhood. Ingrid opens a bank account with her, so she can save her money, and her official papers come in the mail a little while later – her ID card reads ‘Emma Swan’ and she rolls her eyes, annoyed at the child services’ sense of humour. ‘Emma Smith’ would have been more than enough, really, they didn’t have to go all the way to find her something out of the ordinary.

Her days are long and exhausting, but her body seems to be used to the physical effort required by her job, so she isn’t as tired as she could be when she leaves the shop at the end of the day. She even gets the hang of the espresso machine after her first week at the coffee shop, and the owner is nice enough. It may be the bare minimum when it comes to money, but it’s not that bad and at least it keeps her busy. That’s seriously all Emma asks for, at this point.

Ingrid buys her new clothes, too, and they test different types of food regularly so Emma can learn to know her own tastes. It makes for an hilarious meeting with Brussels sprouts (definitely not her thing) and it’s love at first sight with onion rings. All in all, living with Ingrid isn’t as bad as Emma would have thought at first. Ingrid is nice but not overbearing, letting Emma have her life and alone time when she needs it, all the while being funny and witty. They have movie nights at least twice a week, and Emma grows attached to the woman fairly quickly.

Ingrid jokes that Emma is like a little chick after hatching, imprinting on the first person she saw, and “it’s your name, after all!” To which Emma scoffs and rolls her eyes, but the metaphor is cute, and it fits. Only a little.

Ingrid also shows her the town’s library, and Emma would be lying if she said she didn’t love having access to that many books – she always has one in her bag, reading when there are no customers around at the coffee shop, and discovers the joys of going to bed when the sun is rising because she just couldn’t put her book down before finishing the story. Ingrid jokes that she is lucky, getting to discover those books for the first time all over again, and Emma has to agree. Nothing compares to the wonder in her eyes when she picks up a Harry Potter book for the first time, and reads it all in one go the very same night.

It’s on one such evening, nose buried in The Goblet of Fire as Emma rests in bed after a long day at work, that Ingrid comes to knock softly on her door. Her brow is furrowed as she stares at Emma, lips pressed into a pensive pout – like she is pondering on which words to use, which sentences to say. Finally, after long seconds of stilled silence, Ingrid takes a few more steps into the room.

“I don’t want to pry, but – I bought you a box of tampons when you arrived, and you never used them. Are they okay? Do you need something else?”

It is Emma’s time to frown as she looks away from her book and closes it. She’s been living with Ingrid for a little more than a month now, and it had completely slipped her mind that – that she was supposed to get her period, at some point. She gasps and jumps to her feet, Ingrid already grabbing her by the arms before she can move any further.

“Okay, listen. We’re not panicking now. I’ll buy a test, and we’ll see what happens next, okay?”

Emma finds herself nodding, because she can’t do anything else at the moment – her brain went into overdrive for a few seconds, but now she is too numb to think at all, and she lets Ingrid pull her downstairs so they can go to the nearby store to buy a test. It all happens in less than twenty minutes before she finds herself in the bathroom, peeing on a stick and praying to any deity out there to have a little pity on her.

If they hear her, they decide not to listen.

She does panic this time, biting down on her bottom lip not to – cry, maybe, or yell, or both. This isn’t fair, and she says so to Ingrid. This isn’t fair, because she doesn’t remember anything, doesn’t even remember having sex or – or _whom_ she had sex with, which all things considered is an important detail. Her hand instinctively reaches for the necklace around her neck, before she remembers the women from child services telling her she may have someone out there looking for her. She lets go of the necklace with a groan, or maybe a sob – where is he? Where is that guy who cares enough to have sex with her no matter the consequences, but who won’t look for her when she goes missing? Where the _bloody hell_ is he?

She finally breaks down in Ingrid’s arms, barely hearing the woman’s words of comfort over the sound of her own cries – how she tells her everything will be okay and they will find a solution, and don’t you worry darling, I’ll help you no matter what. She hears it all but doesn’t listen, as the tension that had built-up through the last few weeks finally explodes into a flood of tears and desperation.

 

 


	3. Chapter 2

Her heels are too high, her dress too short. Emma finds herself tugging at the hem as she gets out of the subway, hoping against hope it will cover more of her legs. It's cold tonight, winter settling in early this year and giving her goosebumps. The dress wasn't exactly a good idea and – well it's one of the perks of the job, getting to wear jeans and a hoodie everyday. But sometimes she has to make an effort, if she wants the paycheck that will keep her lights on and her fridge full, so dresses it is. And make-up. And brushing her hair. Such a hassle, really.

At least it's better once she enters the restaurant, warmth rolling in waves on her skin and fighting off the goosebumps on her arms. It's a nice little Italian place, with round tables and dim lights, candles at the centre of every table, cosy and welcoming. Quite expensive too – obviously meant to impress her with money the guy doesn't have. She found him on Tinder of all places, after weeks of skimming through his bank statements and tracking his phone. And now she finds him at the table in the corner, a decade older than his profile picture and looking exactly like the kind of guy picking up women young enough to be his daughter.

Emma forces a smile on her lips anyway as she moves closer to the table, not wanting to look suspicious. She's supposed to be excited about their date, after all.

“Ryan?” she asks. The man stands up with an obvious sigh, entire body sagging in relief at the sight of her, and Emma hides her frown behind a smile. “You look relieved.”

“Profile pictures can be deceiving,” he explains simply.

Emma almost snorts at the irony of such a statement – her profile picture might be real, but his clearly belongs in the past, before his divorce and before he stopped paying for child support. Before he started dating younger women on money he doesn't have. Funny how things go sometimes.

“No, I'm me,” Emma offers with a grin she hopes to be coquettish. She's never been good at those, but her face is one people easily trust and she uses it to its full potential when need be. She points to the table and adds, “Shall we?”

Ryan immediately nods and sits back in his own chair, leaving Emma to shrug off her coat and sit too. She's not one for thinking women need the help of men in their lives, but the obvious lack of chivalry in her date of the night leaves much to be desired and she forces herself not to roll her eyes at his manners (or, rather, lack of). A gentleman always leaves a better impression. Not that she would know. Her dates are always fake, never one to make true human connections lasting longer than the morning after, when she sneaks out of the beau of the night’s bedroom and never looks back. Works well enough for her and, if she repeats that mantra enough times, she may even convince herself men like Darcy are meant to stay fictional, a dream of a fantasy wrapped into well-crafted words.

It is with Colin Firth in mind that she goes through the first course, even though her date’s conversation is dull at best, uncomfortable at worst. She isn't even surprised his wife would want out, if this version of his personality he is offering Emma tonight is the best he can muster. _What happened to romance_? she wonders, the thought alone leaving a bittersweet taste in her mouth.

“So, tell me more about yourself,” Ryan asks her after ordering the main course – salmon for her and, of course, steak for him. Men are predictable that way, coming back to their Neanderthal selves when they try to look like an appealing choice for a mate. Animals, the whole lot of them.

“Well,” Emma starts with a forced laugh. “I'm afraid there isn't much to say.”

Not when most of your life is one big exclamation point on top of memories you'll never get back. She could imagine a childhood for herself, friends, a high school sweetheart, afternoons at the mall with the cheerleader squad, but this date is too much of a scam already and she is in no mood for creative writing. Or improvisation, whatever fits the situation most.

“Now I refuse to believe that. Are you studying? You look like you could still be in college.”

 _I look like I could charge you for sexual assault against minors_ , she thinks. Doesn't say out loud. “You need money for college,” is what she replies instead. “Which I don't have.”

“Don't you have folks who could help you out?”

“No, I don't have those either.”

Her smile is forced, her lie well-practiced. Well, only a half-lie, really. Ingrid may not have put her through college (but then again, why would she?) but she has always been there in all the ways that matter. Still, Emma's statement is only answered by silence, as always when she shares bits of her sob story. She can't blame people for the awkwardness, for not knowing what to answer when you tell them, without batting an eyelash, that you are an orphan.

“Sorry, that's too heavy for a first date,” she adds with a laugh meant to be nervous, tugging a strand of hair back behind her ear. “I work as a waitress in a diner downtown.”

Among other things.

“Oh ** _,_** that's nice,” her guy replies, not entirely convinced. He sounds like the kind who doesn't tip, just because he thinks the minimum wage is more than enough. Or just because he is a dick. Either way, Emma decides that she has had enough for the night, that she would like to make it back home before the last train, before she has to take a taxi.

“It is,” she replies and grins again. “And let me guess, you're… Working in a bank. Or at least you were, up until last month, before you got fired and arrested for embezzling money so you wouldn't have to give it to your wife and kids, and your boss found out.”

There is something quite fascinating about the way his face falls in slow-motion. It starts with his eyes widening before a frown settles on his features, a little deeper with each passing second. Emma stays still, if only not to spook him. She does hate running after her perps, even more so while wearing high heels.

“Who are you?” he asks coldly, voice losing its flirtatious edge to take a more dangerous, threatening tone. But she knows guys like him – they are all talk, no action, only looking tough because they’re hoping it will be enough to scare off the 25-year-old pretty blonde in front of them. It’s underestimating both Emma and her will to get a paycheck before the end of the night.

“The chick who put up half the money to bail you out.”

There is a twitch in his jaw as he spits, “A bail bondsman.”

“Bail bonds _person_ ,” she corrects, just for the sake of the argument.

He stares at her for a while longer, before throwing the table at her in his haste to run away. The plates fall on the ground, his chair clatters when it hits the wall, and Emma’s wine spills on her dress as people loudly gasp around her, obviously not expecting that turn of event. A waitress stops to stare at Emma, as if somehow she’s the one to blame for the mess, but Emma only looks down at the dark stain on the red fabric of her dress. She curses mentally – it will need dry cleaning, if it’s not ruined altogether.

With a heavy sigh and a promise to the waitress to come back and pay the bill, she follows the moron outside the restaurant. His car is parked just across the street, and he’s reaching for his keys in his pocket when Emma crosses the street. A car honks at her but she ignores it, instead smirking at the man in front of her as he desperately turns on the ignition only to notice a wheel clamp is preventing him from going anywhere.

Emma may be new to the job, but she’s not naïve.

With his door now opened, the guy glares at her, and Emma’s smirk widens a little at the sight.

“You don’t have to do this, okay? I can pay you.”

“You don’t have the money,” she replies, matter-of-fact. “And even if you did, you should give it to your wife and kids instead.”

He sneers at her, and for a second Emma thinks he’s going to punch her and try his luck at running away, car be damned. It has happened before, after all, she still has the fading bruises to prove it. But it’s an entire different tactic he chooses, one she didn’t expect.

“What the hell do you know about family, huh?”

Emma isn’t the most level-headed person there is, but she likes to believe she can keep her cool more often than not. Still, she leans forward and grabs the guy by the back of his neck, shoving his head against the wheel without a second thought. His forehead hits the wheel with a _beep!_ , knocking him out.

“More than you do.”

 

…

 

It takes another half an hour before the police arrives, cuffs the guy, and thanks Emma for her job. She offers them a tight-lipped smile in reply before going back to the restaurant so she can apologize to the waiters and pay for everything. Thankfully, they don’t make a scene and don’t ask her to pay for the broken plates and glasses, and let Emma go with a promise she will try her best never to do business here ever again.

She does catch a train home, and stops by the bakery around the corner before making it to her building. Only a few lamps are switched on when she enters her apartment, the television only low background noise and the teenager she hired for babysitting on her phone. The kid raises her head when she sees Emma, smiling politely. Emma makes sure everything went well (it did) before she pays the girl and lets her go home.

Only then does Emma kick out her high heels, groaning as she wriggles her toes – her feet hurt, as always when she spends too much time in those torture devices. She’s on her way to the bathroom to get rid of the dress too and slip into more comfortable clothes, when the door behind her creaks open. She turns around, grinning when Henry appears in the doorway, still half-asleep and rubbing one eye with the sleeve of his Star Wars pyjamas. (It’s a Wookiee onesie, completely adorable, and she bought it as much for herself as she did for Henry.)

“Hey, kiddo. Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I heard you coming home. I didn’t give you your present.”

Emma tries, and fails, not to wince. Today was an eventful day and, between school and her job, and she barely had the time to spend more than one hour with Henry. It sucks, but it happens, and it sucks even more when it’s her birthday and they can’t spend it together. He may only be seven, but he’s mature beyond his years, so Henry understands she would rather be with him than at work, that she doesn’t get to choose when the bad guys are on the loose.

(It’s not really her birthday. Or, rather, there’s a chance in 365 that today is her birthday, but she needed a date for her birth so they gave her one at random, based on the fact that she vaguely remembered her birthday was two months away from the day they found her, alone and confused in the woods.)

“Go grab it while I change, okay?”

He nods eagerly and runs to his desk, the pitter patter of his bare feet against the floor making her grin as she goes to the bathroom. She puts on some yoga pants and a large shirt, pulling her hair into a ponytail before she goes back to the living-room. The cake she’s bought was supposed to be for breakfast, birthday celebrations a day later, but she grabs it anyway, and with it two spoons. It’s way too late for a sugar rush, but she allows herself not to be the mother of the year for once. They both deserve it.

By the time she enters the living room again, Henry is already sitting on the couch, hands behind his back to hide whatever it is he’s made for her. His eyes widen a little at the sight of the cake, tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip, and Emma grins at his reaction as she puts the cake on the coffee table. Henry stares at it for a little while longer before he shakes his head and focuses back on the task at hand – mainly, showing her the card he was hiding behind his back.

The handwriting is still a little hesitant, the letters trembling lines that read ‘happy birthday mommy’. He also drew a family portrait underneath – himself holding her hand, and she wears her red leather jacket, and Emma guesses the yellow blurb behind them is her car. There is also the sea in the background, and a sun with sunglasses, and a big pink heart between the two of them. Emma blinks away the tears, her own heart growing ten times bigger at the sight.

“I love it, thank you.”

Henry grins at her, proud, even more so when she leans down to give him a hug and a loud kiss on the cheek. She isn’t sure if she wants to put it on the fridge or to buy a special frame so she can hang it in her bedroom but – but, but does she love her son.

“I love you, mommy,” he tells her.

“I love you too, darling.” She kisses him again, just because. “Now, should we eat that cake?”

“No! You need a candle to make a wish!”

The look of anguish on his face, like he can’t actually believe she would eat her birthday cake without blowing the candles and making a wish first, is the only reason why Emma accepts to stand up and go rummaging through the kitchen drawers. She knows they have a bunch of candles somewhere, if only because it was Henry’s birthday a few months ago and she bought a new set. So she finds the candles after a few moments, grabs one along with the pack of matches, and goes back to the living room.

Henry’s grin widens, even more so when she puts the candle on top of the cake and lightens it. They both stare at it, Henry in awe, Emma wondering what kind of wish she can make. Henry will obviously ask her if she made one, and will know if she says yes but means no. He takes after her in that department, after all.

She thinks of a birthday that really isn’t one, thinks of the blackness of her own memories, of Henry’s sad little pout the first time he was old enough to ask about his father. She thinks, and stares, and thinks some more, before closing her eyes.

 _I want answers_.

Henry counts to three, and they blow the candle together.

Someone knocks at the door.

 

…

_When Snow was a little girl, a circus came all the way from Agrabah for her mother’s birthday – a gift from her father, who had been quite fascinated with the performers when on a diplomatic mission in the foreign kingdom and who wanted his beloved wife to see such a wonderful show with her own two eyes. Before the performance, Snow had convinced Johanna to go visit the company – fire-eaters and funambulists,_ _jugglers_ _, elephants, tigers. Her eyes were wide opened as she took it all in, the colours and sounds, the rhythm of the drums echoing deep within her ribcage._

_Snow knows that, technically, the Dark One is human like Charming and her, made of flesh and bones. She also knows people like to compare him to a snake, the comparison easy to make when you see the colour and texture of his skin. But, with the way he holds on to the cell’s bars, both_ _with_ _his hands and his feet, bouncing on the spot as if dancing to some tune only he can hear, Rumplestiltskin actually reminds Snow of the pet monkeys from the circus, all those years ago. The way he grins, a little feral, as he tilts his head to the side, only makes the comparison more striking to her._

_“Snow White and Prince Charming!” he laughs_ _maniacally_ _, the sound bringing a shiver down Snow’s spine._

_She went to war and found herself victorious, she was banished from her own queendom and survived, but in that moment Snow finds herself more terrified than she has even been in her life. The cell will hold him back, will keep his magic at bay, but there is something truly frightening about that high-pitched giggle of his. Also about the way he guessed their identities without even glancing under the shadow of their hoods._

_“You insult me.” Then, with a motion of his hand, he adds, “Step into the light and take off those ridiculous robes.”_

_His voice is soft, too soft, like that of a father coaxing his child into going to bed early – Snow knows a thing or two about being at the receiving end of such a voice. She moves forwards slowly, carefully, one hand rising to pull the hood back. It falls at_ _her_ _back, hair spilling around her face and down her shoulders. Charming does the same next to her, although reluctantly. She can’t really blame him for his distrust, not after Regina, George, Bo Peep._

_They move closer to the cell in hesitant steps, still unsure of the strength of the magic holding Rumplestiltskin back. It seems to be working just fine, but one is never too careful, especially when facing the Dark One. The light of the torch falls on his face in ugly shadows, making him even more threatening than he already was._

_“We’ve come to ask you about…”_

_Charming doesn’t get to finish his request, cut off by Rumplestiltskin’s high-pitched, angry voice. “Yes! Yes! I know why you’re here!”_

_Rumours have it the Dark One can read the past and the future alike – knows everything there is to know about time and history. Snow would discard such silly whispers if she hadn’t been at the receiving end of many a curse. Now, older and wiser, she knows better than to believe stories are just that. There is truth even in the oldest of legends, the rarest of grandmother tales._

_“You want to know about the Queen’s_ _threat_ _.”_

_“Tell us what you know!” Snow replies, perhaps a little too loud and too hurried. She doesn’t have patience for the Dark One’s riddles, not when her family, not when her_ queendom _could be in great danger and he is the only one holding the answers she seeks._

 _He_ _‘oooh’s_ _and_ _‘aaah’s_ _in reply, teasing and taunting about her reaction, and Snow forces herself not to wince at his “Tense, are we?” It would only give him further ammunition against her, and Snow can’t really afford it when she already is in a position of weakness in their negotiations. If anything else, the diplomatic lessons forced on her as a child taught her this. Never_ _show_ _your cards unless you have already won._

_“Fear not,” Rumplestiltskin goes on anyway, “for I can ease your mind. But it’s going to cost you something in return.”_

_“No,” Charming says. He grabs Snow’s arm as to pull her away from the cell. “This is a waste of time.”_

_Snow shrugs him off, moving closer still until she is only a breath away from the bars – and from the Dark One’s face. A bittersweet smile blossoms on his lips as he wraps his fingers around the bars, presses his face to them so he is even closer to Snow than before. Too close, but she’ll be damned if she moves – she went through war against a witch, she can handle him too if needed._

_“What do you want?” she asks him._

_He tilts his head this and that way, as if hesitating – Snow sees right through his game, knows this is well-thought and meticulously planned, nothing left to chance. “The name of your unborn child?”_

_Names hold power, even more so than any kind of magic in this realm. Using her child’s name as a bargaining chip is a dangerous move, for it could be of great help to them right now, but could jeopardize her child’s name the moment Rumplestiltskin decides he has had enough of their games. The moment Rumplestiltskin decides to use that name to his advantage. It’s a risk, one Snow isn’t sure she is willing to take but – but what choice does she have?_

_“Absolutely not,” Charming says at the same time Snow takes her decision._

_“Deal,” she replies, a little louder than her husband. She feels his stare on the back of her neck, but refuses to look back at him in fear of_ _losing_ _her composure if she does, in fear of doubting herself. She stands a little taller, her chin a little higher, as she glares at the Dark One and waits for his answers. “What do you know?”_

_His grin is feral, victorious, as he explains, “Ah. The Queen has created a powerful curse. And it's coming. Soon you'll all be in a prison, just like me, only worse! Your prison – all of our prisons — will be time. And time will stop. And we will be trapped, someplace horrible, where everything we hold dear, everything we love will be ripped from us while we suffer for all eternity, while the Queen celebrates, victorious at last! No more happy endings.”_

_He drops the act after the few words, voice low and serious, and perhaps that is even more frightening than all the rest because – because something in Snow tells her that he is scared too, of this prison he describes. And if the Dark One is scared, where does that leave the rest of them? Her eyes widen, her jaw goes slack, and she struggles to react at the curse he describes. There is no good reaction to being told you will be cursed into misery for eternity, with no chance of getting out._

_(All that as revenge against a child who was manipulated into telling a secret without knowing the consequences, Snow reminds herself, bile rising in her throat at the thought. Who would go so far in their scheming? Who could have such a dark heart?)_

_“What can we do?” Snow asks, because she refuses for it to be the end._

_Rumplestiltskin kills her optimism in the bud, though. “We can’t do anything.”_

_But there is something in his eyes, a truth he refuses to willingly offers. A lie isn’t really a lie if it’s an omission, and you learn to ask the right questions until you find the truth. “Who can?”_

_He doesn’t reply at first – not in so many words, at least. Instead, he sneaks one arm between the bars of his cell, stretching it out until Snow can almost feel the scrap of his long, yellow nails against the fabric of her cape. It_ _starts_ _high and goes all the way down, pointing one finger at the round belly her gown doesn’t hide anymore._

_“The answer,” he starts, pressing against the bars even more so his hand can reach her, “is within you.”_

_Charming draws his sword before Rumplestiltskin can touch her belly, the flat of the sword hitting his knuckles. Rumplestiltskin sneaks his hand back inside the cell with a hiss, less pain and more unveiled threat as he glares at Charming._

_“Next time, I cut it off,” Charming threatens._

_The Dark Ones tsks at the prince, unimpressed. “The princess is our only hope,” he starts, before focusing back on Snow. “Get her to safety. Get her to safety and–” He closes his eyes with a frown, silent for long seconds. His frown deepens as he tilts his head to the side, and Snow wonders what it is he is seeing that no one else is privy of. “No…”_

_The voice, barely more than a soft whisper, echoes in the dungeons as silence falls again. Snow glances Charming’s way. He looks as confused as she feels, and she doesn’t know if it is a good thing or not – probably not, really._

_“No, something’s wrong – something’s…” He trails out again, then, “You will be given time. Peace. She will wait, and wait, until you think she forgot about you. Then she will attack and curse us all.” Snow’s entire body trembles with fear at the words. “_ Then _you will get the princess to safety and on her – twenty-fifth birthday, she will return, she will find you –_ and the final battle will begin _!”_

 _He breaks into a hysterical laugh, startling Snow. She can’t look away though, not even when Charming grabs her arm and pulls her away from the cell, not even when he says, “That’s enough, we’re leaving,” in a voice that leaves no place_ _for_ _argument. Snow takes a few backward steps, still staring while Rumplestiltskin is still giggling, before she turns around and starts walking, one hand pressed against her belly while the other_ _wraps_ _around the fabric of her dress, just above the heart. It’s beating frantically against her ribcage, her breathing coming a little ragged and desperate._

 _“Hey!_ No _!” Rumplestiltskin yells at them, amusement leaving place to anger. “We made a deal! I want her name.”_

_Only then does Snow realize he’s been calling the baby a girl from the very start – if she ever doubted his ability to see the future, she no longer would now. It only fuels her fears, and Snow has to force herself not to cry even if the tears prickle at the corners of her eyes, threatening to roll down her cheeks at any second now._

_Charming noticed too, for he turns to the Dark One and replies, “‘Her’? It’s a boy!”_

_“_ No, she isn’t _!” he yells again, louder. Then, quiet, coaxing, “Missy, missy, we had a deal.”_

_She stops, chin dropping in a sigh. Her eyes close of their own accord as Rumplestiltskin keeps calling after her, again and again. She tries to ignore him but his voice echoes in her head, tries to move again and leave but her feet are stuck to the ground. She winces, curses her inability to double-cross an enemy, even one as dangerous as Rumplestiltskin. Her heart is too good, too pure for her to play such games, but in that moment she wishes it were different, she wishes she had the nerves to just up and leave, never to offer her daughter’s name despite her promises._

_“Give me the child’s name,” he says again._

_Snow knows better than not to hold her end of the bargain. She ignores Charming’s vain attempts at stopping her as she turns around and walks towards the cell again, careful to leave some space between her and the bars. She stares the Dark One down, but he only smiles back, content, relieved._

_“Emma. Her name is Emma.”_

_His grin widens as he grips the bars once more, pressing himself to them from forehead to ankles. His eyes lock with her for long seconds, before he looks down to her swollen stomach, and back to her eyes again. “Emma,” he echoes. “What about the other one?”_

_She frowns, confused. “There is no other one.”_

_“No, no, no I_ know _.” His voice gets a few octaves higher as he speaks. “But the next one. The one who will come after? Their fates are entwined – I can see it. She will save us, and he will help. But his name. I need his_ name _.”_

 

…

 

Emma’s first reaction is to glance at the door, then the cake, then the door again, perplexity settling on the frown of her brows. She doesn’t believe in miracles, and coincidences do happen every day, but this one in particular is a little jarring. If Henry’s hesitant ‘What did you wish for?’ is anything to go by, her son is just as confused as Emma feels right now.

“Don’t move, okay?” she tells him instead, adding a pointed finger to show how serious she is about it.

Henry nods and settles back in the couch, willing to obey for once. When she’s certain he won’t move, Emma stands up and walks toward the front door – not without grabbing the mace she always carries in her handbag, because she’s reckless but not naïve. She’s also a single mother in her early twenties, so she knows a thing or two about creeps and how to get rid of them.

She unbolts the lock, glances at Henry over her shoulder one more time, before opening the door. And, truly, she didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t a teenage boy, blond, unknown, fifteen or sixteen at best, grinning at her like the cat who ate the canary. Emma frowns some more.

“By the gods, it’s really you!”

He makes for – hugging, maybe? definitely for moving forward, but Emma stops him by holding her hands up in front of her, and he stops. “Who are you?”

The kid is the one frowning now, the gesture somewhat familiar even if Emma can’t place it. Hell, he does look familiar, period, but she has no idea why or when she ever saw him. She thinks back to the candle, shakes her head.

“My name is Leo. I’m your brother.”

 _Fucking candle_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Feelings? Expected someone else?


	4. Chapter 3

Emma can only stare at the teenager in front of her, jaw going slack and words eluding her. Her brain is slow to catch up with this brand new information, or perhaps doesn’t know how to digest it at all – how are you supposed to react, when someone you’ve never seen before shows up in the middle of the night and claims to be related to you? She tightens her grip on the door, knuckles turning white, as she toys with the idea of just closing it and be done with – whatever is happening right now.

She doesn’t have a family. Hell, if you believe the policemen, she didn’t even exist before she was found in the woods. Nobody ever reported her disappearance, and nobody came looking for her. She waited, and waited, but nothing ever happened, and so Emma just accepted the fact that there was no one to go home to. That she was alone in this world, no family, no loved ones. It sucks, but she’s learnt to deal with it. She doesn’t need some delusional teenager to come and ruin that for her, thank you very much.

“I don’t have a brother,” is all she replies.

She makes for closing the door, but of course he stops it with his foot, and laughs a little at her words. “Huh, yes, you do.”

Her index finger drums against the door as she grows more frustrated and restless with the need to run, run away and forget this even happened in the first place. If she closes her eyes and makes another wish, if she blows the candle a second time, will he just go away?

“Listen, kid. I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care who you _think_ you are. But you’re not my brother. You’re no one to me, so just leave before I call the cops and –”

“Mommy, who is it?”

Emma cringes, and forces the door close a little more, but the teenager’s foot is still blocking it and Henry is now standing behind her, confused and curious. She begs him with her eyes to just obey and go back to the living room, but Henry does as Henry wishes and it’s too late already. The teenager’s eyes widen in about half a second, and he pushes the door open – she has ten years on him, half of them spent tackling criminals for a living, but he still manages to be stronger than her and to force the door open.

“You have a _kid_?”

He enters the apartment despite Emma’s attempts at stopping him and she can only stare, in horror, as he knees in front of Henry. The two of them simply look at each other for a few moments, before the teenager tilts his head to the side.

“Zeus, Mama is going to _kill_ you. Look at him, family eyes and all and – wow, those are Kil–”

“Don’t touch his ears,” she snaps.

Henry was either blessed or cursed, depending on the point of view, with green eyes and black hair in a world where Harry Potter exists. Still, it’s his ears that other children love to focus on, a little too pointy for their own good, as they always taunt him with ‘Henry is a free elf’ during recess. She’s been complaining to the teaching staff a lot, because her son doesn’t deserve to be bullied that way, and is now working on teaching him to say that he’s another kind of elf, and Santa will put the mean kids on the naughty list if they continue bothering him. But Henry doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, and it’s not really working so far.

So yeah, Emma is a little protective of her son’s pointy ears. Bite her.

The teenager looks above his shoulder, back at her, and very pointedly rolls his eyes – his familiar, _green_ eyes, the same she sees in her son every day, the same staring back at her in the mirror. Emma swallows, squinting at the boy in front of her even as he starts a conversation with Henry, asking for his name and his age and what his favourite superhero is.

There is no denying the physical likeness – the eyes could be a dead giveaway by themselves, but she also can’t ignore the blond hair, the round chin, the cheekbones. She refuses to come to the right conclusions, but they invade her brain anyway, and maybe he’s not lying. Maybe they really are related, even if it’s farfetched and impossible and it gives her a headache just thinking about it.

“What’s your name again?” she asks, already regretting this.

But the kid grins as he jumps to his feet, like he won a battle Emma didn’t even know she was a part of. He grins and two dimples appear on each side of his mouth, and Emma feels like passing out a little.

“Leo,” he says, and puffs his chest a little. “I was named after the Great Lion himself.”

Emma gapes, and shakes her head. “Aslan doesn’t exist, buddy.”

“ _You_ don’t exist,” he snaps back, petulant, and that’s familiar too. “Yeah, okay, I was named after grandpa Leopold. Seriously, you don’t remember _anything_?”

She opens her mouth to reply, but he looks so young, and earnest, and so sad, that the words get stuck at the back of her throat until she chokes on them. Emma doesn’t know exactly what Leo sees in her, but it’s obviously more than just his long-lost sister – there is a glint in his eyes that speaks of loneliness and desperation, two feelings Emma knows well. He needs her, and it’s so obvious it scares her half to death.

“I need a drink,” is what she says instead.

She finds an old bottle of rum in the back of a kitchen cupboard, the kind she only keeps for the bad days, when she needs the alcohol to numb the pain in her bones and in her heart. It burns down her throat when she takes a sip, but not as much as Leo opening her fridge and grabbing the bottle of orange juice before pouring two glasses. She wants to protest – that much sugar and vitamins isn’t good for Henry right before bed – but she can’t, not when the teenager looks so at ease in her kitchen, so at ease _around her_.

"I know this is going to sound crazy if you don't remember anything, but bear with me, okay?"

Emma only arches an eyebrow, not liking where things are heading already. Hell, there probably isn't a single version of 'you thought you were an orphan but we were there all along even if we weren't looking for you and this is why' that _wouldn't_ sound crazy to her right now. It's all a little too much, and she already went through all the possible scenarios on her own, staring at the ceiling in the middle of the night. Undercover spies, royalty in danger, parents thinking she's dead, she pretty much covered it all without anybody's help.

"Crazier than a brother showing up in the middle of the night?" she asks, sarcasm dripping from her every word.

Leo's lips twitch a little before he deadpans, "Yes, because our mother is called Snow White."

Emma stares at him. Stares at the floor. Stares at him again. Takes a large gulp of rum. It burns, but not as much as the bitter chuckle on her lips, not as much as the thought of _and you almost believed him_. For a quarter of a second there, she actually thought this kid could be her brother, and he would reunite her with her family, and she would get her happily ever after.

Turns out he really does think they are out of a fairy tale. Or something.

"Yeah, okay, you know what? Stop wasting my time."

His eyes are pleading, panicking, as she goes to grab his shoulder and pushes him out of her apartment and out of her life. But he won't go without a fight, of course he won't. His words are hurried, his voice stumbling on the syllables, as he goes on with, "That scar on your chest is from a sword fight. You like hot cocoa with cinnamon. You find the sea calming."

"That's not proof, that's _stalking_."

"Emma, _come on_."

She opens the front door, and not too delicately shoves him outside. Leo stumbles on his own two feet for a moment before finding his balance again and turning to face her, desperate and imploring.

"Look at me, and tell me I'm lying."

"You believe in what you're saying. It doesn't make it the truth, though."

"But it _does_." He takes a step forward again, even as she closes her fists mechanically. "And you know I'm right, and it's scary, but it's okay. Heroes are allowed to be scared."

She blinks at him, startled by his brand of optimism. She's always been a half-empty glass kind of girl, and it's so obvious he's on the half-full side of the debate, and Emma doesn't know what to say, what to think. She doesn't want this optimism, this small flicker of hope gnawing at her.

She doesn’t want it, and yet.

"How did you find me anyway?" she asks, not even trying to hide how eager she is to change the subject. He tells her she's Snow White's daughter, she's allowed not to take it all too well and to avoid thinking about it like the plague.

"Huh, the _Internet_."

Her lips twitch, and she lets him back inside.

Henry has fallen asleep on the couch in the three minutes it took them to argue, rolled up into a ball of adorable Wookiee faux-fur. She grabs the small blanket on the other chair and puts it on him so he doesn't get too cold before she finally has the opportunity to put him to bed. Which might not be in a while, if she doesn't find a way to get rid of Leo pronto.

Leo, who's walking around the room curiously, stopping in front of the family pictures on the wall – Ingrid, Henry and her during the summer; Henry's first day in kindergarten; some weird selfie they took at Coney Island two years ago. He tilts his head to the side and frowns, but doesn't comment. Emma wouldn't even know how to begin to explain that her mother isn't Snow White but the closest she has to a mother figure is a woman owning an ice cream parlour and fostering lost, broken kids.

"Where do you live?" she asks.

He startles, either at her words or because she's now standing next to him. His eyes are a little wide, but his grin is wicked enough. "Storybrooke, Maine."

" _Storybrooke_?" she scoffs.

"Yeah, and you're coming home with me."

She arches an eyebrow at him, the dismissive edge to it so obvious Leo only rolls his eyes in reply, even as he folds his arms on his chest and stands his ground. This is the stance of a boy who's not leaving without a fight, reminding her both of herself and of Henry when he doesn't want to take a bath. She hates it, how alike they all are, how impossible for her it is to ignore the part where they are, indeed, related.

"Why?"

She swears she sees a flash of victory in his eyes, and she hates him for it. "Well, first of all, I hitchhiked to come here, and what kind of responsible adult would let me go back on my own?"

Her mouth opens in surprise, jaw going slack and mind turning to clouds because – this is _evil_ , this is so perfectly planned, toying with both her mother instinct and her need to protect people, that she can only admire Leo a little for that. And he knows it, if the way he forces his lips not to twitch into a smirk is anything to go by. She can't keep him here, and she can't let him go alone, and they both know it.

She sighs, pinches her nose. Their last trip to Maine was years ago, since Ingrid is the one driving to Boston for Christmas now. It's Friday night, the beginning of school break, so Henry doesn't have to be anywhere on Monday. She can drop Leo in _Storybrooke, Maine_ then go to visit Ingrid for a few days before coming back home and put this all behind her. Only a few days, she can afford it.

"Okay," she agrees. "Let's get you back to Storybrooke."

 

...

 

She wraps Henry in a warm blanket and his winter coat, knowing from hours of stakeouts that her bug can be really cold at night, and shoves a few pieces of clothing and toiletries into a backpack, along with Henry's Nintendo DS and a few books. Just enough to keep them going for a few days, then be back home.

Leo is noticeably quiet as she turns on the ignition and checks that Henry is sleeping one last time before driving away. He's looking out the window, fingers drumming on the backpack he's carrying on his lap. Only then does Emma notice he indeed has a backpack, and that it's weirdly shaped, like it's hiding a very big book. She frowns, a little, but doesn't comment and instead focuses on leaving Boston behind as fast as possible. She's never been a fan of driving at night, and the sooner they arrive, the better she will feel about everything.

When the silence becomes too oppressive, she switches on the radio, just loud enough to create background noise without disturbing Henry's sleep. He's always grumpy when he doesn't get his eight hours, and she doesn't want him to whine too much once they're with Ingrid. It would only fuel a good amount of 'you should come back and live here, I could help you with Henry' and Emma doesn't need that. They're doing good, just the two of them. They're doing great.

They're finally on the interstate when she feels Leo's eyes boring into the side of her face, and fidgets a little in her seat, uncomfortable. It's been Henry and her alone for so long she sometimes forgets what it is, spending time with someone who isn't her son. It's not a lonely life, per se, but she likes her solitude and likes not having to rely on people. She likes not getting attached, too, even if she doesn't exactly know why. So, yeah, she can't remember the last time she spent more than two hours with someone, especially if said someone just stares at her like she's an attraction in a zoo. A pet monkey, perhaps.

"If you have something to say, just say it," she tells him through gritted teeth.

"No, I – I just didn't think it would be that complicated."

"What?" she asks, and turns her head just long enough to see him nibbling down on his bottom lip, pensive and a little lost. He's just a kid, she reminds herself, give him a break.

Leo sighs, and replies, "Everything," before he looks back outside the window.

She spares him another glance, wondering if he's only acting like that so she will probe and ask more questions. Well, tough luck, she doesn't care so it's not working. Emma is more than fine with spending the entire journey in silence if she needs, just to drop him and be on her merry way. Plus, talking means opening up, and that means caring. She doesn't want to care about him, doesn't want to get attached. Then it will be Henry and the stray cat all over again, having to explain why they can't keep it. They can't keep Leo either. He's just a kid, someone must be waiting for him, sick with worry that he ran away.

(And, wow, isn't that something she doesn't want to touch with a ten-foot pole.)

Leo falls asleep too, eventually, cheek pressed against the cold window of the car and mouth opened in a silent snore. Emma glances his way and swallows down a smile, before her eyes drop to the backpack still on his lap. She knows it's a bad idea, she's perfectly aware of it, but curiosity killed the cat and she slowly, delicately opens the bag to look inside.

Like she predicted, it's a book, large and leather-bound, golden letters reading 'Once Upon A Time'. Emma frowns as she closes the bag, before she scoffs. Snow White. Yeah, sure. This kid has issues, and the sooner she brings him back home, the better it will be for everyone involved.

The three hours it takes to drive all the way to Storybrooke go fast despite the burning feeling at the back of her eyes, and she only wakes Leo up for directions once she's reached Rockland. His voice is coated with sleep as he tells her to turn this or that way until they drive past the sign that welcomes them to Storybrooke.

It only takes a few more minutes to reach the town centre – really just one main street, the little town vibe to it making Emma's stomach churn. She likes big cities better, how you're just one head in the crowd and you barely acknowledge your neighbours when you walk past them in the hallways. Even plunged into darkness, Storybrooke is too small and intimate, like a hundred little eyes are watching in the shadows. Or perhaps it's just Emma's exhaustion talking.

"Okay, tell me where to drop you and the direction to the nearest inn or something."

She's only met with silence and for a moment Emma thinks Leo simply fell back asleep, but it's pretty obvious when she glances his way that he's _purposefully avoiding her gaze_ , and she has to take a deep breath not to snap at him. It's past 2am, her patience ran thin hours ago.

" _Leo_ ," she starts, threatening enough that he does glare at her this time.

He winces too, like a puppy that just got kicked. "I may have not been entirely honest with you."

"You think?" she snaps back. "Where do you live?"

"Nowhere," is his reply.

Emma's heart drops in her stomach, anger leaving place to sadness, then anger again. Not at him, but at the system, at the adults of this town letting a teenage kid live in the streets without batting an eye, without even questioning how wrong this is. Of course, he would come looking for her. Of course, he would be desperate enough to come and find her, if only because it means he doesn't sleep under a fucking bridge for one night. Emma curses herself for not seeing the signs, they probably were everywhere and she didn't notice.

"Okay, fine." She rubs her eyes, now burning with sleep and the lack of glasses. "Let's find the inn or something."

The inn or something turns out to be the only diner in town, and it's a small miracle someone is actually at the desk to welcome them in. The old woman, face wrinkled by time and kind smiles, almost startles when Emma opens the door. For a moment, Emma thinks she woke her up (it would only be fair, after all) but it turns out, if the old woman's frantic excitement is anything to go by, that she simply isn't used to guests, 2am or not.

"We'd like a room for the night?" Emma asks, shifting Henry in her arms so he doesn't slip. He's growing a little too tall to be carried around, but it's late and she’d rather him asleep in her arms than asleep alone in the car. "Two beds."

"Really?" she asks back, as if Emma was about to change her mind. Emma only smiles back, and the woman shakes her head before grabbing her ledger. "Would you like a forest view or a square view? Normally there's an upgrade fee for the square, but as the rent is due, I'll wave it."

Emma shares a look with Leo, but he just shrugs, unhelpful, so she shrugs back. She really doesn't care, she only wants a mattress and a blanket and to pass out until tomorrow afternoon, or something.

"Square is fine," she replies eventually.

The old woman nods, before she grabs the pair of glasses dangling around her neck and puts them on her nose. Her smile is professional for Emma, but turns soft, tender, when she looks at Leo. "Glad you're okay, boy," she tells him, to which Leo only shrugs. "Now, what's the name?"

"Swan," she replies, and wets her lips. "Emma Swan."

“Emma,” someone echoes behind her.

Leo tenses by her side, in an almost cartoonish way – his back straight and shoulders stiff, hands closing in fists to the point of knuckles turning white. She frowns at him, a quick glance of warning, before she turns around to face the newcomer. He’s old, wearing a suit that has seen better days and a grin that brings a shiver down Emma’s spine – especially when said grin only widens at the sight of Henry still asleep in her arms.

“Yes?” she asks, a little petulant and a lot defensive.

“What a lovely name.”

She tightens her hold around Henry, the instinctive reaction coming with hair raising on the nape of her neck. Leo slides closer to her, as if ready to defend her – he might not look strong but Emma knows better than to underestimate people. She has no doubt he could take that old man in a fight, even though she has no idea why said man is a threat in the first place. She isn’t one to ignore her instincts, though, so she keeps alert just in case. One never knows, in a little town like this.

“Thanks,” she replies, her voice clipped.

The innkeeper manages to divert the man’s attention then, handing a roll of cash and what’s not. Emma still holds her breath, though, because she feels his eyes on her even as he talks with the older woman, feels his interest rolling in waves against her skin. It makes her stomach uneasy with the urge to run away. Nothing good can come out of – whatever the hell is happening to her.

Especially when he turns to her and adds, “You enjoy your stay. _Emma_.”

The way he lingers on her name creeps her out. Especially with that little smile, like he holds all the secrets to the universe in the curve of his lips and she somewhat has something to do with it. Seriously, what kind of town is this and why does such a scary dude own half of it, if the old woman’s words are anything to go by?

Emma only feels like breathing again once the door closes behind him, little bell chiming happily to celebrate Mr Creep’s departure. She shakes her head and glances Leo’s way – his fists are still closed but he’s less tense all of a sudden, like he too feels more at ease now that the man is gone. Emma has so many questions, but she will have to wait until they’re in their room.

Speaking of which, the older woman is handing her a key, the chain made of heavy metal. Emma takes it with the hand not holding Henry, thanks the woman, then nods for Leo to follow her down the hall and up the stairs. He does so without a word, silent even when she puts Henry on the bed and tugs him in.

Only then does she tug Leo in a corner of the room, folding her arms on her chest and glaring at him. He looks – guilty, _almost_ and it stirs something deep within Emma, like it’s a familiar face on him somehow, like it’s not the first time she’s scolding him. She shakes her head. Nonsense.

“What the _hell_ was that?” she asks in as loud a whisper as she can afford without waking Henry up. Hell, she wants to go to sleep too, but knows she won’t be able to do that if she doesn’t get answers first.

Leo looks away from her, fidgeting on the spot and playing with her patience. “You’re not ready to believe me.”

She’s ready to tear his head off, is what she is. “Yeah? Try me.”

He nibbles on his bottom lip for a moment, before sighing. His whole body heaves with the breath he lets out, eyes closing as he says, “Okay, there’s a curse. The Evil Queen sent everyone from the Enchanted Forest here, without memories of who they are.”

Emma squints at him. “Because of course she did.”

He looks exasperated enough when he glares at her, and Emma can’t really hold it against him. She would lose her patience too, if she were interrupted in the middle of her tale. Even if said tale doesn’t make sense in the least because – Evil Queen? Curse? Lost memories? _Sure_.

“The man you saw, he – he’s Rumplestiltskin. He predicted the curse.”

“ _Rumplesti_ – the little Shrek dude?”

Leo’s mouth opens for a moment, but no word comes out, and he glances to the bed where Henry still is dead to the world. “ _Sure_. Anyway. He predicted that you would break the curse, and I would help you.”

“That’s madness, you know that? You sound like a mad person.”

Leo sighs and looks away again, shoulders sagging a little. He mumbles something that may or may not sound like ‘whatever’ under his breath, before he walks toward his bed. He’s silent again when he kicks his shoes off and shrugs out of his hoodie, throwing the blankets above his head as he settles in bed. Emma stares at him, before she shrugs and goes to settle in her own bed too.

She wraps herself around Henry, smiling a little when he snuggles closer to her. His soft breath is warm against her collarbones, his snores quiet enough to lull her to sleep, but Emma finds herself staring at the wall in front of her anyway.

Her mind keeps whirling with the influx of information Leo forced on her. She tries to scoff it off as some kind of nonsense he made up to explain why his life sucks and why he needs her by his side – she can’t blame him for it, honestly, even if there is nothing much she can do at that point. The kid needs help, and a stable family structure. She can’t help him with the former, and she isn’t certain she’s ready for the latter.

But – and Emma hates herself for this, she really does – it would make sense, wouldn’t it? Why her parents never came looking for her, why her memories are gone even if no one can explain how. She chastises herself the moment she even lets the thought cross her mind – those are nothing but fantasies, and they only fit her situation so well because she lets them. Because she needs an explanation so desperately that she would take _Snow White is your mother and she’s cursed not to remember you_ over no explanation at all.

Emma rolls her eyes at herself, mockingly.

Everything will be over once she leaves this town, anyway.

 

…

 

When she wakes up, the sun is high in the sky and Henry is quietly playing with his Nintendo DS on the other bed. Emma rubs her eyes, cursing herself a little when she remembers she never took her make-up off last night, before she sits up and stares at her son. She notices the empty paper boxes next to him on the bed, and sighs in relief. At least he didn’t die of starvation while she was sleeping.

She checks her phone then, her eyes widening when the screen announces that it’s well past three in the afternoon. How she managed to sleep through two meals and through her son’s shenanigans, Emma does not know. A mystery, no doubt, because Henry isn’t really good at keeping himself busy for long periods of time and –

“Henry, where’s Leo?”

Henry barely looks up from his console, which probably means he’s in the middle of a really intense Mario Kart race. Emma doesn’t exactly blame him for being distracted. Still, he replies, “Went downstairs to buy snacks,” and then pokes out his tongue in concentration as he tilts the console to the side, as if it would help.

Emma shakes her head before she stands up, then curses when she notices that her wallet is gone – _little asshole_. The only reason Emma doesn’t get angry on the spot is that Leo obviously used her money to feed Henry. And to feed himself, and god knows when was the last time he had a decent meal, really. She would be a terrible person, if she got angry for that. It’s still upsetting, but understandable.

“I’m going to take a shower. You stay here, okay?”

Henry replies a small “Okay” before Emma goes to the bathroom, purposefully not locking the door so she can react quickly if something happens. Ingrid always tells her she has trust issues, but Emma finds those issues totally rational for a single mother. You never know what could happen, after all. So she’s still on her guard as she rubs the eyeliner from her eyes before taking a fast shower. It does the job of washing the grime of hours behind the wheel alright, and Emma feels a little better once she’s slipped on clean clothes.

Leo still isn’t back once she gets out of the bathroom, so Emma sighs and rolls her eyes. “Come on, Henry. Let’s see what’s going on with those snacks.”

She needn’t say more for the Nintendo DS to be long forgotten – the call of food is always the strongest, with Henry. Little walking stomach, he is, and Emma grins as she opens the door and he runs down the hallway. She locks the room behind her before following her son down the stairs.

The diner is almost empty, since it’s the middle of the afternoon and everyone must still be at work, but Emma finds Leo by the counter, valiantly arguing with the old woman who offered them the room last night. The discussion seems to be heated, and Emma frowns a little when she approaches them.

“Emma!” Leo exclaims when he sees her. “Tell Granny that waffles are not just breakfast food and that it’s totally acceptable to eat them at any hour of the day.”

Emma blinks at him, before her lips curl into a smile. “Are you trying to force the poor woman to make waffles for Henry?” Leo gives her the kind of face than basically means _duh!_ before she turns to Granny with a shake of the head. “Don’t bother, he’s just trying to score brownie points. Anything with chocolate will do.”

“Finally someone reasonable,” Granny replies with a pointed glare to Leo.

The teenager shrugs noncommittally before he goes to sit at a booth with Henry. Emma rolls her eyes, even more so when she notices her wallet on the counter where Leo was only seconds before, and orders hot cocoas on top of the slice of cake Granny is handing her.

Emma represses the need to take a bite of the cake, instead drumming a rhythm on the counter with her fingers as she waits for their drinks. There is only one other waitress beside Granny, busy pouring a cup of coffee to one of the rare patrons of the diner. She looks in her late thirties, long dark hair pulled into a ponytail and legs that make Emma hope she will look like that in a decade too. Some people are just so lucky at the genetics lottery.

The waitress smiles at her as she walks behind the counter to go to the kitchens, and Emma smiles back before she goes back to drumming a rhythm against the counter. She’s looking above her shoulder at Leo and Henry – the former showing some magic trick to the latter that involves a sugar packet – when the bell chimes with a new patron entering the diner. Emma turns her head to see a woman standing frozen in the doorframe, dressed smartly and looking daggers at Henry and Leo.

Emma’s fists clenches instinctively, even more so when the woman’s gaze falls on her and grows even more furious, if such a thing is even possible. Her high heels click on the tilled floor as she makes her way to the counter, emotions washing off her face to leave place to a blank expression. There is heat in her voice, though, when she asks, “Who are you?”

Emma scoffs. “Wow, really?”

Her bewilderment at the woman’s attitude – old enough to be her mother, but apparently not old enough to have manners – only gets worse when the waitress shows up with a to-go cup of coffee and a small ‘Madam Mayor’ in greeting. Seriously? The fucking _mayor_?

The woman seems to come to the same conclusion, even if her eyes stay cold, for she offers a hand to Emma and adds, “Regina Mills, mayor of this town. And you are?”

Emma swallows down her cutting remark and forces herself to reply, “Emma Swan. I’m only passing by.”

Which isn’t a lie _per se_ , but the mayor’s eyes still find Leo by the other side of the room and Emma fights the urge to take the teenager and hide him as far away from the woman as possible. Something tells her nothing good can come out of her, and Emma never is one to ignore her instincts.

“Passing by and collecting stray pets, I see.”

Emma’s blood turns cold, and she forces herself to take a deep breath through the nose not to do anything reckless. She doesn’t know this town, but something tells her punching the mayor in the face would not exactly be a good option in the eyes of the inhabitants. _Not_ starting with the waitress, because she hasn’t moved from her spot behind the counter, as if ready to jump over it and hold the mayor while Emma punches.

“Leo found me. I’m just bringing him home.”

“And what is home exactly?” the mayor replies with a sigh, as if this whole situation is paining her dearly. Emma admires her acting skills. “I guess we’ll have to call social services and figure it out.”

Screw cold, Emma’s blood is now ice in her veins as she glances at Leo. His shoulders are stiff even as he keeps playing with Henry, only proof that he is well aware of the situation even if he pretends not to. She doesn’t know exactly what plan A was up until now, but plan A suddenly turned into plan let’s-throw-the-kid-to-the-wolves and Emma isn’t about to let that happen. She remembers her own days in the group home a little too vividly to let it happen to someone else, especially if said someone is related to her.

But can she take care of Leo?

Does she _want_ to?

It doesn’t really matter all that much, what she wants or doesn’t want. He’s her brother, and Henry forced her to watch Lilo and Stitch enough times to know that _nobody gets left behind_. Her son would never forgive her, if she even dares think about abandoning Leo that way.

So she sighs, and tells the mayor, “He’s my brother. I can take him in, right?”

The mayor’s responding grin makes her believe this is what she was expecting Emma to say all along, and it leaves her a little queasy.

 

…

 

The mayor’s office looks like something right out of an Ikea magazine, cold and emotionless – just like the woman sitting behind the large black desk. Emma fights against her uneasiness as she looks down the glass of apple cider in her hand. She isn’t a day drinker, waiting until Henry is asleep if she wants to gulp down a glass of alcohol, but hell if she needs it right now. The cider is sweet and sugary on her tongue, barely doing its job of easing her nerves as the mayor is looking for this or that paper.

Maybe she should call Ingrid and ask for her advice, if not her help – Ingrid has been a foster mother long enough to know about such things, or at least to have contacts who could help Emma in what can only be a long procedure full of tons of paperwork. It would make her life easier, not to mention that Emma could do with the mental support, with someone telling her this is the right thing to do. She’s never felt more lost than when she moved in Boston with Henry, alone and not entirely certain she would make it out of it alive.

Emma is startled out of her thoughts by a sharp cough, only to find Regina handing a file to her with the most bored-yet-annoyed look on her face. She’s almost snapping her fingers for Emma to move quicker, too, and Emma grows a little more frustrated by the minute – if only that is possible. She’s discovering new levels of frustration she didn’t know existed, today.

“You will complete this file and hand it back to me so I can send it to the relevant services,” the mayor explains in a monotonous voice. “I obviously expect you to stay around as a – hum – guarantee of your dedication.”

Emma may imagine the gleam in the mayor’s eyes when she finishes her sentence, the smile that is more of a smirk. She is already antagonizing the woman, so of course she sees what she wants to see at this point. She has a habit of doing that, seeing the worst in people.

So, instead, Emma smiles back, as sweetly as possible. She downs her glass of cider before putting in on the desk – a few inches away from the coaster – and grabbing the file. She skims through it rapidly and, yes, she will definitely call Ingrid once she’s back to her hotel room. She will need her mentor’s help.

“Fine. Will be on your desk tomorrow.”

Which probably is an overstatement, because it looks like she will need a lot of papers, some still in her files in Boston. But oh well. She won’t do this asshole the pleasure of being slow, that’s for sure. The faster she gets rid of those formalities, the faster she can take Henry and Leo, and get the hell out of the town. She sure won’t look back.

With one final, and sarcastic, smile at Regina, Emma turns around and leaves the office, making sure that the door stays ajar behind her. She’s polite, but she’s also spiteful with people who rub it the wrong way, so. This may be petty, and immature, but it also feels really great and Emma can only smirk to herself as she walks down the hallways of the town hall and goes back to her car, parked down the street.

She slaps the file on the passenger seat when she enters the bug, turning the key in the ignition and switching on the radio. A folk song starts playing, and Emma hums under her breath as she drives off. The town is larger than she would have expected, the town hall a few minutes’ ride away from main street, and she finds herself a little lost when she turns left and doesn’t recognize the street.

She frowns, hand raising to rub at her forehead. It’s suddenly very hot inside the car, even if the sun is setting and the heating system is switched off. Her frown deepens, especially since it comes with a small headache – probably a secondary effect of not wearing her glasses. Still, she can’t wait to be back at the inn, so she can relax and spend some time with Henry. Surely it will make things better, as it always does.

She turns left again, too busy trying to find a street sign to notice the wolf in the middle of the road before it’s too late. She gasps, and brakes, the tires groaning against the asphalt as she swerves to the left.

She hits something, and everything goes dark.

 


	5. Chapter 4

_Johanna ushers Emma into the kitchens with a disapproving look, shaking her head as she brushes the dirt off the princess’s shoulders. Emma only grins at her old nurse as she toes off her riding boots so she doesn’t leave smudges of dirt all over the kitchen’s floor. She shrugs off her cloak too, rolling her eyes as Johanna tries to make her hair look a little more presentable. There really isn’t much to do about Emma’s long mane after she’s spent the morning riding her horse, and all she really needs is a good bath to look regal again and to stop smelling like the stables she came from._

_“Your lady mother awaits you in the drawing room,” Johanna tells her. “She will be most upset to see you in those rags.”_

_“Those are not rags!” Emma laughs. “They’re my riding clothes and you know it.”_

_“They are not fit for a princess,” Johanna replies as she twists Emma’s hair into a high bun._

_Emma rolls her eyes_ _once_ _more, and patiently waits for her nurse to pin her hair up before she turns around and puts both hands on the fretting woman’s shoulders. Now fifteen, Emma is finally taller than the woman who has been taking care of her all her life, something she takes deep pride in. It makes her feel old and mature, somehow._

_“Mother is a queen, and she used to wear those all the time.”_

_Johanna must give up on their fight, or must think Emma will really upset her mother if she keeps her waiting any longer, for she doesn’t reply and instead pushes Emma away from the kitchens and down the hallway. Emma throws her nurse a laugh above her shoulder before she waves and goes her merry way._

_The drawing room is two floors above the kitchens, far enough that guests would not be disturbed by the greasy smell of food cooking in the large frying pans. Emma takes her time making the journey, smiling to every guard she walks by and smiling even more when they’re confused as to whether or not they are allowed to smile back. Some she has known all her life, but some only started on the job a few weeks ago and so are not yet used to the princess’s attitude towards the castle’s staff. They will, eventually._

_One of them opens the door to her when she finally arrives in front of the drawing room, and she enters the room with confidence in her steps. Snow stands up when she sees her, her frown leaving no doubt as to how upset she is at her daughter’s shenanigans. Between Emma and Leo, the queen gets grey hair (metaphorically and literally) a little too easily these days._

_“Did you call for me, Mother?” Emma asks, perhaps too petulantly for her own good. She knows not to cross her mother when she’s already upset, but some lessons Emma will never learn, it seems._

_“Yes, indeed. Thank you for finally gracing us with your presence.” Snow wrinkles her nose as she raises a hand to pick a blade of grass hidden in Emma’s hair. She sighs, defeated. “What did you do this time?”_

_“Merida said she’d never lost a fight. I couldn’t ignore the challenge.”_

_“So of course you rolled around in the forest like trolls,” Snow sighs, and rolls her eyes. “Where is Merida now?”_

_Emma bites her bottom lip around the cheeky grin blossoming on her lips. She tries to bite down a laugh, too, but it escapes her anyway when she replies, “Rolling around in the forest with Roland.”_

_The Queen looks about to give up on life itself, hand rising to pinch her nose, but it’s a muffled chuckle behind her back that has Emma reacting. She turns around, only to face a woman she has never met before – her_ _cheeks_ _turn crimson, with more surprise than shame at being caught telling such stories to her mother. Surely she wouldn’t say such things in public, she was raised better than that._

_“Oh, I apologise for my crude language. I didn’t realise we had guests.”_

_The woman drops into a curtsy, and Emma replies in the same fashion. Curiosity takes over as she notices the woman’s dress, so unlike the fashion of their kingdom – the fabrics seem different, as well as the patterns and embroideries. Surely this woman is from another kingdom, yet Emma doesn’t recall a conversation about a diplomatic envoy coming to the castle today._

_When the woman stands up straight, it’s with a dimpled smile and her blue eyes sparkling with amusement. Emma is relieved at the sight, for she’ll take a stranger silently mocking her over a stranger being affronted by her behaviour and that tongue she doesn’t always control._

_“Worry not, Your Highness. I raised two children. I heard worse, didn’t I?”_

_She punctuates the end of her sentence with a pat on the forearm of the man standing next to her, and Emma’s eyes travel from one face to the other seamlessly. If surprise was painting her cheeks only seconds before, the blood runs back to her face with a vigour at the sight of the man – the feelings entirely new and different._

_He’s older than her, although not by much – barely a man yet not not exactly a boy anymore – and unfairly handsome. He shares the woman’s blue eyes and her black hair, though his is pulled into a strict ponytail. His broad shoulders are wrapped in the heavy blue fabric of a sailor’s uniform, and his demeanour matches the outfit. He stands straight, hands behind his back and chin high, serious without being too proud._

_Emma is fascinated._

_Her sixteenth birthday will be next year, and with it will come the time to meet suitors and gentlemen – Emma never pondered on that for longer than is necessary, too busy both enjoying her childhood and going through many a lecture about politics, decorum, war strategies. Suitors are only a_ _thought_ _for later, one she’ll deal with when the time comes._

_This time has never been closer until now. Of course, Emma already found people attractive, men and women alike – Lancelot, her mother’s master of arms, is as handsome as they come – but it was only a child’s infatuation, nothing to really linger on. Now, standing in front of this sailor and feeling something new deep within her stomach, now Emma feels at loss, feels like more than a child. Whether it’s a good or a bad thing remains to be seen._

_“Emma,” her mother announces, unaware of her inner turmoil, “May I present you Lady Maureen Jones and her son, Lieutenant Killian Jones.”_

_The name is enough to drag Emma away from her thought, a small frown creasing her forehead as she offers her mother a puzzled look. “Captain Jones…” she starts._

_“Captain Willa Jones is my daughter, Your Highness,” Maureen Jones replies with one more curtsy and a smile that can only be described as proud._

_Emma’s lips curl into a wordless ‘oh’ before she nods. She may not know every sailor in their Royal Navy, has only met a few of them during balls and official gatherings, but Captain Willa Jones’ reputation precedes her. Not only because she is the first woman to raise to the rank of captain – an impressive feat in itself, of course – but also because she is more talented than men twice her age, and because Emma’s father already talks of changing Willa Jones’ title from ‘Captain’ to ‘Admiral’ one day._

_“I have heard many a great tale about your daughter, my lady.” Emma is used to stroking noblemen’s egos, but she doesn’t need to lie for once. Her smile widens as she adds, “And I hope to one day hear many a great tale about your son, too.”_

_When she chances a glance toward the Lieutenant, his cheeks and the tips of his ears_ _the crimson of roses blossoming in the castle’s gardens. For a moment, Emma wonders if she said something to upset him, when her words were only meant as praise, but then he turns a soft, almost timid smile toward her. She can only smile back with relief at the knowledge that she didn’t offend him – quite the contrary._

_He bows his head to her in a silent token of appreciation, to which Emma replies by grabbing a pan of her dress and bowing a little too – it makes for a sloppy motion, but the message comes across clear as bell. Lost in the blue of the Lieutenant’s eyes for a moment longer than should be_ _appropriate_ _, Emma is oblivious_ _to the_ _amused and knowing glance the older women share. Even if she were witness to such a silent communication, she probably wouldn’t get the meaning of it anyway._

_“Lady Jones was our envoy in the Frontlands for almost two decades,” her mother provides for her. It does explain the foreign clothes and why Emma never saw Lady Jones at balls and parties – the Frontlands are a far away land, way past the forests in the west. Emma has never visited the place herself, for her parents have little reasons to go on diplomatic missions to a peaceful kingdom that doesn’t have a huge impact on the trading systems of the Enchanted Forest._

_“And it is good to have her back,” the Lieutenant adds. His smile turns a little less impish and a little more loving as he turns his gaze toward his mother, and Lady Jones replies in kind as she squeezes her son’s forearm. His voice is deep, with the accent of a man who didn’t grow up in Mist Haven – which makes sense, for he apparently grew up in the Frontlands._

_“You’re only saying this because you will be away at sea most of the time and won’t actually have to put up with me.”_

_The Lieutenant doesn’t contradict his mother, instead opting to grin down at her. Dimples flash on his cheeks, and Emma feels the_ _sudden_ _urge to press her fingers at the corners of his mouth, to brush them against the indents in his cheeks. She doesn’t know where this urge is coming from, nor does she understand it, so she decides to play with the fabric of her dress instead. Her hands are moist, her heart racing._

_“Lieutenant,” Snow White starts, and his grin drops as he stands taller to face his queen. “Would you mind keeping my daughter company while your lady mother and I discuss politics?”_

_His ears turn_ _red_ _again – more pink than crimson this time, but still noticeable. “It would be my honour, Your Highness.”_

_He offers his arm to Emma then, the spitting image of the perfect gentleman – his eyes soft when they land on her, his smile ghosting at the corners of his mouth. Emma has no doubt a chaperon will follow them outside, if only because she is the crown princess, and the crown princess needs to be watched over when spending time with men who are neither her father nor her brother. Emma finds the rule quite stupid – nobody ever keeps her under surveillance when she spends time with Merida, so why should spending time with a man be any different? She could kiss Merida as much as she could the Lieutenant, so why should gender make a difference?_

_But, as her lady mother likes to remind her, rules are here for a reason, and Emma learnt to accept them eventually. So Granny Lucas sitting on a bench and keeping an eye on them it is, even as Emma shows the Lieutenant the flowers she likes best. Buttercups, although nothing more than unwanted weed, are her favourites, probably because their golden petals adorn her family’s coat of arms._

_The Lieutenant bends down to pluck one, before securing it behind Emma’s ear. Try as she might, it is her time to feel her cheeks be on fire, even as she looks away from the man’s eyes. They seem to read too much in hers_

_…_

She wakes up with a startle.

Emma has been drunk before, although not many times – she always feels bad hiring a babysitter who’s barely younger than herself, just so she can go outside and hit a few bars. It makes her feel like the worst mother in the world, and she ends up not enjoying herself because she’s too busy being guilty over the whole thing. So, yeah, being drunk isn’t really something she’s been through before, but the headache just beneath her forehead is enough to tell her she’s hangover.

Or has a concussion.

Or both.

And of course, she left Henry behind, not even the thought of Leo staying with him easing her mind in the slightest. It was night when she had her accident, and it’s morning now, and that’s a whole lot of hours spent away from her son and her brother. Both of which are underage. Just to make it worse.

The bunk beneath her is cold and metallic, and everything around her smells – unclean, to be honest. Which, great. She’s never been on that side of the bars before, as if her day wasn’t quite obviously shitty enough as it it.

She stands up with a groan, the headache pulsing underneath her skull – less like a headache and more like a hundred war drums, or something. All she knows is that it fucking hurts, black spots in front of her eyes and everything a little blurry around the edges. Her hair hurts a lot too, like someone is trying to tear it away from her head, and she’s pretty sure there’s a bruise blossoming on the side of her thigh.

She’s still holding her head, afraid it might fall off any minute now, when she notices she isn’t alone. She isn’t sharing her cell with anyone, but the one next to hers has two occupants and there’s a guy fixing a cabinet right next to the cells. It’s one of those police stations that’s just one big room, from the cells to the sheriff’s office, and Emma makes a little face. Damn those small towns, really.

“Not to your liking, sister?” one of the guys asks her, when he notices her staring at the place.

He’s kinda short, wearing overalls that have seen a better day and a scowl that makes Emma’s frown deepen. Some people are rough around the edges, but something tells her the guy is a whole new level of rough. The kind where you purposefully cross the road so you don’t have to walk past him on the sidewalk. The kind Emma puts back behind bars everyday, too.

“Hey, Leroy! Manners!” the man fixing the cabinet calls out before Emma even has time to think of a sarcastic come-back. He’s older, and kinder **,** too – the old gentle grandpa type like in Hallmark Christmas movies, the one who gives you chocolate when the parents aren’t watching. “We have a guest!”

Grumpy dude rolls his eyes with the theatricality of someone in a Shakespeare play. This doesn’t seem to trouble the older dude though, who finishes fixing the cabinet before testing the door. It opens and closes flawlessly, so the man props himself up on the top of the cabinet to stand up. Even from her place, Emma can hear a few articulations popping, and she winces. Not that the man seems to be bothered by that either, instead electing to smile kindly at her.

“Heard you brought our Leo back home. How lovely for him to have some family again, lonely boy…”

Where his smile is kind and open, Emma’s is a little stiff. She still doesn’t know how to be a sister, still hasn’t wrapped her mind around it yet. But of course it’s a small town, and the two ladies at Granny’s look like gossipers alright, so she’s hardly surprised that whispers are going around already. She must be the attraction of the year, really, the town seems just that boring.

Grumpy dude, of course, finds it the perfect moment to scoff loudly. He mutters something that may or may not sound like, “who cares, really,” and the older man glares at him with the kind of intensity Emma has rarely seen in grandpas up until now.

“Just because you don’t care about family, doesn’t mean everyone agrees. I would give anything to have my wife again, to try at having a child…”

“Well, cry me a river.”

This is clearly the kind of conversation Emma doesn’t want to witness, too personal and too intimate for her to be comfortable. But there is nowhere to hide from it, no way not to hear this argument, and she looks up to the ceiling, hoping for a miracle to get her out of here. Or for the grounds to open and swallow her up whichever comes first.

As it turns out – the miracle saves her. Well, not really a miracle, because the sheriff enters the room, golden star shining on his chest and a cup of coffee in his hand. He’s old enough to be Emma’s father, but extremely handsome too – the kind who would be very popular with the mothers waiting in front of the school, if he had a kid or something. Emma has seen her fair share of handsome dads, when picking Henry at the end of the day. She knows the drill.

“Leroy!” the sheriff calls out, startling grumpy dude into a salute of some sort. Emma almost smirks. “I’m going to let you out but you need to behave. Put on a smile, and stay out of trouble.”

So called Leroy gives the sheriff one of the most forced smiles Emma has ever seen in her life, so much so that it barely looks like a smile at all – it’s a grimace, plain and simple, as sarcastic as they come. The sheriff doesn’t fall for it, of course, but he still grabs the keys dangling at his hip, turning one in the lock to open the door. Grumpy Leroy makes a quick exist, probably before the sheriff has time to change his mind, and Emma’s jaw drops at the scene unfolding in front of her.

“ _Seriously_?” she asks, even if it doesn’t sound like a question.

“Milady here isn’t satisfied with her quarters, mate.”

For a moment, Emma had forgotten Leroy wasn’t the only one in the second cell. How couldn’t she, when the other guy’s been silent all this time, lying on his own cot and staring at the ceiling? But now he’s standing up and strolling his way toward the cell’s door. Emma finds herself glaring at him – he’s her age, and the kind of asshole she knows to stay away from, mostly because they are assholes. Been there, done that, never again. Thank you very much.

“Milady can talk for herself, _mate_ ,” she shoots back, the last word a poor attempt at mocking his British accent.

He would look amused, if it weren’t for the way his bottom lip twitches ever so slightly. Something anyone would miss, too fast to be really noticeable, but Emma is good at recognizing micro-expressions – it’s part of her job, after all. So, yeah, the guy may pretend at being amused at her comeback, but he really isn’t. Which makes him even more of an asshole, if he’s allowed to insult people yet unable to handle it when said people insult him back.

She’s taking a step closer to his cell, ready to fight him verbally if not physically, when she’s startled by a pointed cough. Eyes widening ever so slightly, she turns her head to the sheriff still standing there, now with his hands on his hips and a frown on his brows. He glares at Emma, then at the other guy, and that’s enough to shut them both up. Impressive.

“Now that we’re done with that,” he starts, hands leaving his hips so he can fold his arms on his chest. He looks almost amused when his eyes land on Emma again. “New in town, and already drinking and driving.”

“I wasn’t drunk,” Emma replies petulantly. “There was a wolf in the middle of the road.”

She knows how it sounds before the words are even rolling on her tongue. So do the sheriff and the asshole, if the former’s rising eyebrow and the latter’s disbelieving snort are anything to go by. She probably wouldn’t trust anyone spewing that kind of nonsense either, come to think about it.

“A _wolf_ ,” the sheriff states, in the kind of flat voice that means he doesn’t believe her. As if the body language isn’t enough, apparently. “Right.”

Emma purses her lips, forcing herself not to reply. It’s one thing to start an argument with her cell neighbour, it’s another thing entirely to pick a fight with the sheriff of the town, while still being behind bars. She would like to get out of here, in the next hour if possible. So Emma swallows down her sarcastic retort, and even more sarcastic smile – a roll of the eyes is all she can afford, just because she can’t help herself. She’s never been good with authority figures, after all.

She’s about to ask how much longer she’s supposed to stay, when someone else enters the sheriff station – leaving peace and quiet at the door, if the noise is everything to go by. Emma would complain, but then she hears a very familiar, very reassuring “Mommy!” and any complain she had simply jumps out the window when Henry appears around the corner, grinning and running toward her cell. He grabs the bars with his little chubby hands, apparently not all that troubled by the current situation – but that’s Henry for you really.

“Hey, kiddo. Missed me?”

His grin widens as he nods his reply, and Emma grins back before looking up. Henry isn’t alone, of course, and Leo follows close behind with a grin of his own and a woman Emma has never seen before. She’s petite, with dark cropped hair and a preppy dress, playing with her hands a lot like she doesn’t know what to do with them. Emma frowns in the woman’s general direction, then to Leo. Her brother doesn’t seem all that troubled by the current situation either, not that Emma expected him to, really.

“Hey, Emma. This is mam–Mary Margaret Blanchard.” Then, to the sheriff he adds, “She’s going to bail her out.”

Emma doesn’t miss the almost-but-not-quite slip of the tongue, even if Leo smiles innocently at her, as if nothing of importance happened. Not that she has much room to focus on that right now.

“Is she?” Emma asks, echoed by the woman’s “Am I?”

The sheriff arches an eyebrow again, equally surprised and amused. It’s probably his most entertaining day on the job this year, come to think about it. Emma would be having the time of her life too, if she’d stepped out of a boring job and into the middle of a soap opera, or something.

“Yeah, yeah, I am,” the woman – Mary Margaret – goes on. “Is that okay with you, Graham?”

Sheriff Graham shrugs, hand reaching for the keys at his hip. “Sure thing,” he replies.

It’s not like he can keep her in there forever, after all. She had an accident, didn’t hurt anyone, and apparently didn’t break anything in the process either. At best, she’ll get a fine for being drunk while driving (although she barely drank at all, really) and she can always repay that Mary Margaret lady once she’s back in her room at Granny’s. The irony of a bailbonds person being bailed out of prison isn't lost on her, and Emma smirks a little.

Emma smirks a lot when Sheriff Graham unlocks her door and lets her go with a small bow that is on the right side of sarcastic. She almost curtseys, just to be a little shit, but being a little shit isn't the first impression she wants to give the woman who helped her out.

Said woman still standing in front of Leo and – and Emma gets the exact same kind of reaction she had back in her apartment, with Leo standing next to Henry. It's just that obvious, the green eyes and round face, the same body frame, way to hold themselves. She looks at the woman, and she sees Leo's mother – _her own mother_ , if Leo's stories are to be believed. Her brain goes on overdrive just at that thought, because the story matches, the age difference (kinda) matches, the physical appearances match too. It would make sense, right? Which is the most confusing of it all. No matter how far-fetched, it could make sense.

“Oi! What about me?”

Emma startles at the asshole’s voice, having for a moment forgotten he was even here. It’s only the second time, after all, not that it matters much. Storybrooke may be but a small town, and she’s only planning to stay for a little while, but Emma will make damn sure not to cross paths with him ever again if she doesn’t have to. The last thing she wants is a Mexican stand-off in the middle of Main Street.

“I don’t think so, James,” the sheriff replies without even looking back at him, too busy going through a set of drawers to find the right paperwork to fill. “Stay there a little while longer, think about what you’ve done…”

The guy pouts – full on pouts, with the jutting bottom lip and the kicked puppy look. It makes Emma snort, and wonder what he did to be thrown in this cell in the first place. Not that she cares about him, but curiosity did kill the cat. And of course, her snort is enough to grab his attention, and he grins darkly at her.

“Want to help me out, milady?”

“Maybe another day,” she replies, flashing him a grin as she goes to stand next to her brother.

She grabs Henry, and groans a little at his weight, but he doesn’t complain about being too old to be held, not when it’s their first hug of the day. He’s pressing his little face to Emma’s neck when she notices Leo’s quizzical look. ‘What?’ she mouths to him, not to disturb Mary Margaret as she’s filling the paperwork and paying the fee.

Leo just shrugs back, a little too dramatically for it to be believable but – whatever. It’s not the first time and probably won’t be the last, and she’ll just have to learn to live with his secrets. Emma isn’t particularly fond of the idea, but she doesn’t seem to have that much of a choice on the matter anyway. And she can’t really blame him for keeping things to himself, not when she almost kicked him out the first time he tried to explain, not when she still refuses to believe a word he says.

So she just rolls her eyes, and focuses back on Mary Margaret as the older woman is signing at the bottom of the page before standing straighter with a smile. Emma can hardly believe some stranger would go with the flow and agree to bail her out, just because. This isn’t something that happens in real life, only in cheap movies she catches in the middle of the afternoon when she has no bad guy to find. In her experience, people are never generous and selfless like that, always expecting something in return – it’s the way society works, as a whole.

“Thank you so much,” she whispers. “I’ll pay you back as soon as…”

“Oh, it can wait, don’t worry.”

Seriously, is this woman from another planet? One with sugar and spices and everything nice, one where teddy bears have drawings on their tummies and everything is right in the world?

(Emma is too young to be that jaded with life.)

“No, I mean it, I…” She stops and shakes her head. “Thank you.”

The woman’s smile deepens. She raises a hand, and at first Emma thinks she’s going to touch her arm – muscles already taut at the physical contact – but instead she brushes her fingers through Henry’s hair. Henry decides it’s the perfect moment to play impish, hiding in her neck and muttering something incomprehensible. Emma laughs a little, bouncing him on her hip to coax a politer reaction out of him, to no avail.

“Leo says that you’re staying at Granny’s for the moment?”

Emma glances at Leo, but the falsely innocent face is still on, the little shit. “Hm, yeah, yeah, we are,” she replies with a shake of her head as she focuses back on Mary Margaret. “I need to start looking for a place, actually.”

Emma can literally see the metaphorical wheels turning in Mary Margaret’s brain before she makes the split-second decision. She nods to herself with purpose, almost as if convincing herself and patting herself on the back all at once for her choice.

“Or you could come live with me,” she replies. And then, hastily, the words tumbling out of her mouth, she adds, “Not that you have to. But I have a big house, and many rooms and – if you have nowhere else to go, you know. You could even pay the rent, if it makes you feel better.”

Emma’s jaw goes slack. That thing earlier, about teddy bears and everything nice? Yeah, multiply that by one million, at this point. She doesn’t know how to react, mostly because there is no particularly good way to react to someone offering you everything on a silver platter even (and especially since) you didn’t ask. It’s been years, but Emma still can’t wrap her mind around how helpful Ingrid was to her, even after she turned eighteen. For a second woman to show the same generosity toward her, it’s a little difficult to comprehend.

(Perhaps she just has that kind of face, prim and proper despite the scowl and leather jacket.)

“That’s – that’s very nice of you,” is all she finds to say, frowning a little when Leo starts mouthing something at her above Mary Margaret’s shoulder, so fast she can’t read it on his lips. He’s talking with his hands a lot, too, but it doesn’t make any more sense than his silent words, especially since he’s getting more excited, and thus more nonsensical, by the second. All in all, he’s forcing her to agree. Probably.

 _This could be your mother_ , a little voice in her head singsongs, one Emma is quick to shush. She doesn’t want to indulge Leo’s fantasies, doesn’t want to get her own hopes up. Just because Mary Margaret looks like them and just because her age fits – she looks about forty, right? – doesn’t mean she’s their mother. Because then Emma would have to believe in curses, and fairy tales, and magic, and that’s one leap of faith she doesn’t want to take. This is the real world, after all, she can’t let Leo’s stories influence her thinking process.

Thinking process that apparently takes more time than is truly necessary, for Mary Margaret adds another, “You don’t have to. Just – offering another option.”

But Leo is now literally begging her, hands clasped beneath his chin and pout on his lips and – Emma is pretty sure she isn’t the kind of sister who agrees with everything her brother says. But she also isn’t the mean kind of sister, who disagrees with everything her brother says for the heck of it. And she has a seven-year-old son who needs better than to live in a hotel room, and god knows when (or just if) she’ll find another place to rent. The idea of owing Mary Margaret so much doesn’t sit well with her, since Emma doesn’t like to depend on other people that way, but perhaps it is for the best. A step in the right direction.

“You’re certain you don’t mind?” she asks with a self-deprecating wince.

“You should just accept,” Sheriff Graham chimes in at that moment, done with the paperwork. “Her banana pancakes are the best you’ll ever taste.”

Mary Margaret blushes even as she slaps his arm, and Emma can only smile at the scene. She has a ring on her finger, the kind that screams of proposal, but she also seems single – lonely. Emma isn’t into the charity business, but something tells her Mary Margaret is offering them a place to stay as much for herself as she is doing it for them. It’s not Emma’s place to pry, but there must be a story there, a little too sad for its own good. But she can accept that – she can accept making a woman less lonely, less alone.

“Well if there’s banana pancakes, then… What do you think, kiddo? You hungry?”

Henry nods against her shoulder, still playing coy. Ah, he just needs to get used to this new environment, and then he’ll be himself again, all loud energy and excited Star Wars adventures. Mary Margaret doesn’t know what’s awaiting her, seriously.

“Pancakes it is, then!” the brunette exclaims happily.

“With hot cocoa,” Leo adds, grinning like the cat who ate the canary.

“Well yes, of course. It’s not a real breakfast without hot cocoa.”

Emma laughs softly at the seriousness on Mary Margaret’s face, as if hot cocoa was something of the utmost importance. And perhaps it is, Emma and Henry after all have spent many an evening hiding under the blankets and sipping on their hot drinks as the snow was falling on the other side of the window, covering Boston with white. There is magic in hot cocoa, spells in the cinnamon she sprinkles on top.

Does she start to sound like Leo? Damn, she does.

With a shake of the head to herself, and after making sure Henry is still secure in her arms, Emma throws one last, tight-lipped, smile the sheriff’s way. He simply replies with a well-crafted sentence about drinking and driving, and a more colourful one about blaming it **on** animals she never saw, before he hushes her outside. Mary Margaret and Leo are long gone, their discussion about breakfast echoing in the hallway.

“Bring me back some pancakes, milady.”

Emma groans as she turns one last time to the guy behind bars. She didn’t really catch his name – was it James? she’s not sure – but Asshole suits him well anyway. He’s holding on to the bars of his cell, forehead pressed against the cold metal, and he does a really sinful thing with his hips when their eyes meet. She forces herself not to groan again. She forces herself not to react at all.

“Whatever you say,” she replies with her best saccharine sweet grin.

The sheriff laughs out loud and, as she leaves the room, she hears him says, “And I’m the one who doesn’t know how to flirt? Please.”

Emma laughs, too.


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow it's been a while... I've been so caught up in my internship, then my thesis, that I barely have time to sit down and write those days.
> 
> But! I'm almost done and then I'll be able to spend the rest of summer writing and bringing you more regular updates (hopefully).

Emma doesn't exactly know what she expected, when Mary Margaret offered to host them. She's obviously a single woman in her forties, so Emma had pictured a simple loft, a small apartment. Which doesn't make sense, when you think about it – if she offered, it quite obviously means she has enough space where to fit a grown-up woman, a teenager, and a child.

Still, Emma didn't know what she expected but it sure as hell wasn't a _manor_ of all things. It even has _turrets_. The place is huge, bigger than any house Emma has ever visited, but it's also empty and silent, like there are way too many rooms and just as many ghosts. There's a sad story behind this, but Emma isn't ready to trade her sad story against Mary Margaret’s so she doesn't ask questions, just takes it all in stride when the petite woman shows them the kitchen, the living room, the back garden.

The number of bedrooms is ridiculous, and they all come with their ensuite bathroom, because of course they do. Leo claims one as his in a matter of minutes, and Henry seems to like the one that has a view of the garden and the sea, which leaves Emma in the last one. The pastel colours and flower patterns are not exactly her thing, but she's not going to complain about their new sleeping arrangements. This is far better than what she could ever afford in Boston.

Emma only has a few belongings in her bag, and she discards it for later. She brushes her teeth and cleans her face, getting rid of the eyeliner smudges under her eyes, before she goes downstairs. A shower is running somewhere down the hallway, drowning out the Mario Kart song a little.

She finds Mary Margaret in the kitchen, cooking the promised pancakes and humming along to an old song playing on the radio. Everything, down to the apron around her hips, screams of a Pinterest board in how perfect and beautiful it is. It will probably change soon, if Henry and his toys have a saying in the matter, but Emma marvels at the decoration for now.

“How can I help?” she asks the other woman, hating to feel useless.

“Lay the table?” Mary Margaret replies with a nod to one of the cupboards.

Emma grabs plates and matching mugs, before she has to open a drawer or two until she finds the cutlery. She opens the fridge to find some orange juice too, for good measure, and by the time she's done the kitchen smells of pancakes and chocolate. She leans against the counter, watching as Mary Margaret flips the pancakes like she's done it all her life.

“You can ask,” the brunette tells her softly.

Emma startles. “Ask what?”

“Why the big empty house,” Mary Margaret replies, throwing her a kind smile. “I can see it's puzzling you. But it's okay, you can ask. It was my father’s, before he passed away. Family home, you know? I never had the heart to sell it and find something smaller so…”

“I…” Emma finds herself speechless for a moment, before she shakes her head. “I'm sorry.”

The other woman smiles at her with a little shrug, like sharing her sad story with strangers really doesn't bother her. It bothers Emma, makes her uncomfortable. She's never been good at small talk, at learning to know a person; being alone with Henry is easier, and far more practical.

“That's alright, it was a long time ago.”

Too long, probably. The woman is as lonely as the house is empty, something Emma can sympathise with. Truth be told, most of the time she's relieved to have Henry, if only for the selfish thought that at least if she has him then she's not alone. It probably doesn't make her mother of the year, but it doesn't prevent her from sleeping at night either.

“Well now you can say goodbye to Saturday mornings in bed,” Emma finds herself saying with a wry grin.

Mary Margaret laughs, which is cute. She probably won't laugh after the third weekend in a row waking up at 7 in the morning because Henry wants to go to the park, or be a pirate on an adventure, or just plain wants her to get up because he is bored. Yeah, the brunette is in here for a ride.

“If it really bothers me, I'll just raise your rent,” she replies innocently.

It is Emma's time to laugh, surprised and amused by the other woman's quick wit. Mary Margaret offers her a little smirk, obviously proud of herself, before she grabs the plate of freshly baked pancakes. Emma knows the drill, moving closer to the staircase to yell that breakfast is ready. Immediately, the pitty-patter of Henry’s feet echoes in the entire house as he runs down the stairs to the kitchen. Leo follows a few moments later, hair still damp from his shower and now sporting a clean t-shirt. At least he seems to own more than one outfit, so Emma probably won’t have to worry about that until later.

Breakfast is a fast affair, if only because both boys swallow down the pancakes in a matter of seconds – Emma tries, but mostly fails, to make Henry chew slowly. She barely gets two pancakes herself, but at least nobody tries to steal her hot cocoa and everyone is polite enough to congratulate Mary Margaret on her cooking and to thank her for the food. The brunette blushes under the boys’ praises, and Emma grins into her mug at the domesticity of it all. It definitely beats sleeping at Granny’s, and she tells Mary Margaret so as they do the dishes afterwards.

Mary Margaret laughs. “Please never tell her that.”

 

…

_Emma is always anxious when her father leaves the castle for a few days. It is for the greater good, of course – he is meeting with Queen Abigail on a diplomatic mission, while the rest of the family readies for a visit from King Eric – but it always leaves Emma uneasy to know him gone for so long. She may only be eight, but she has heard enough about poisoned apples and enchanted mirrors to worry to her heart’s content._

_It is well into the night, the candles in her bedroom slowly dying, when the wind whistles in the tree by the other side of her window. Emma tries to be brave, at first – it is only nature being a little too loud – but she startles at the hoot of an owl, high-pitched scream on her lips. Before she knows it, her feet are on the cold floor, her hands reaching for the candle by her bed, and she is out of her room. Her nightgown billows at her ankles with the soft wind traveling in the hallways, and she is swift to find her way to her parents’ chambers, swifter still to crack the door open and sneak into the room._

_Her mother is lying in bed, letters in hand, and she raises her head at the sound. Her black hair falls into heavy ringlets around her shoulders, free from the usual updos, a sharp contrast with the white of her skin. Snow White has always been beautiful in her daughter’s eyes, even more so tonight – an angel ready to welcome her into a warm embrace, ready to scare away the demons keeping Emma awake at night._

_“Are you all right, my darling?”_

_Emma shakes her head, before she runs to the bed. She is careful to put the candle on the bedside table before she climbs in with her mother, slowly as not to crumble the letters lying on the mattress. Only then does Emma notice her mother isn’t alone in bed – Leo snuggles close to her side, one hand gripping the fabric of her nightgown in his sleep, mouth open in a silent snort. Emma isn’t_ _surprised_ _, for it is not the first time, and certain not the last, both she and her brother find themselves sharing a parent’s bed when the other leaves the castle. Soon they will be too old for this, soon she will have to learn how to be a queen and a lady, so Emma enjoys the comfort of being a child while she can._

_“The wind was scary,” she admits in a whisper as she slips under the blankets._

_It is warm and comfortable, and she moves closer to her mother’s side as she props her head on the pillow. Snow White gathers her letters and puts them down on the bedside table before snuffing out the candle. Another one still burns by the other side of the room, casting its golden shadows on the queen’s face. She slides down so she can lie between her children – Leo moves a little in his sleep to accommodate her, and then Emma snuggles closer until she finds the perfect position._

_“The wind can be quite scary at night,” her mother confirms, playing with Emma’s hair. It has always soothed her, ever since she was a wee child. “But you are brave, my darling. You will learn to live with your fears, to control them.”_

_Emma nods a little, pressing her chin against her mother’s shoulder. She is silent for a moment, before she asks, “Was it scary in the forest?”_

_They don’t often talk about life before the Evil Queen’s defeat. Emma knows the stories, of course, as does everybody else, but there is pain in her mother’s eyes when she remembers that part of her life, and Emma hates to see her suffer. So she keeps her curiosity for the rare moments when her father reenacts one of those stories before she goes to bed, playing the outlaw princess and the pauper turned prince for Emma’s enjoyment._

_“It was,” Snow White admits. “But other things were scarier, so the nights were not so bad. And I wasn’t always alone; sometimes people would offer me shelter.”_

_“Like Roland’s mother!”_

_The tales of Maid Marian are some of Emma’s favourites – she loves to hear about how she helped Snow White during her years of exile, putting her life on the line to protect the princess. It is the kind of bravery Emma hopes to have when she is older, the kind of woman she aspires to be._

_“Exactly like Roland’s mother,” her mother_ _replies_ _with a little tap to Emma’s nose._

_Emma giggles and makes a face, before she sobers up as the wind makes itself loud again, branches of a nearby tree rasping against the window. She tries not to whimper as she moves closer to her mother, looking for reassurance in the warmth of her body._

_“What if I’m too scared to break the curse?”_

_Her mother’s fingers still in her hair, and for a moment Emma wonders if she said something wrong. But then Snow White goes back to petting her daughter’s hair, a sigh escaping her lips softly. Soft sighs always mean she is looking for her words, for the right way to say something, and so Emma waits._

_“Nobody expects you not to be scared, my darling. Your father was scared when he defeated the dragon. I was scared when I fought the Evil Queen. I was terrified.” She pauses for a moment, before she continues, “You are allowed to be scared. But you need to learn to use you fears, and they will make you more powerful. Your weaknesses become your strengths when you use them well.”_

_Emma ponders on the words for a moment, before she closes her eyes. “I’m not feeling very brave tonight, Mama.”_

_“That’s all right.” Her mother leans down to kiss the top of her head. “I can be brave for both of us right now.”_

…

 

Emma finds Leo in his bedroom after she has taken a shower. He’s curiously staring at a shelf full of books, like they somewhat hold the answer to the universe, and she startles him when she knocks on the door to make herself noticed. Some kind of emotions flash through his eyes, too fast for Emma to read them properly, before he settles on a smile.

“Hey, can we talk?”

He fully turns to face her now, and shrugs a little. “Yeah, sure.”

Emma closes the door behind her before she sits cross-legged on his bed, and Leo takes a seat next to her. They stay silent for a moment as Emma finds the right words to start this conversation. The questions are a bit of a mess in her head, too many of them so she doesn’t know what to focus on for a moment, before she settles on the most obvious one.

“You think she’s our mother, don’t you?”

“She is,” Leo agrees with a nod. There is no space for argument in the tone of his voice, no doubt at all. Then again, Emma reminds herself that him being convinced of something doesn’t make that thing true but – physically, at least, it makes sense. As if reading her thoughts, he adds, “We all look the same.”

Emma can’t exactly argue with that. They do look like they could be related, the three of them and even Henry. There is no denying it, but looks can sometimes be deceiving and Emma knows better than to run on hope and dreams. She sighs deeply as she grabs a pillow and hugs it to her chest, leaning backward until her back is pressed against the wall. It doesn’t make for the most comfortable of positions, but it also allows her to have this conversation while staring at the ceiling instead of looking at Leo.

“I’m not saying that I believe you, because I don’t, but – but if what you say is true, how does it work?”

Leo is silent for long seconds, and for a moment there Emma does believe he is going to ignore her. But then he sighs, just as loudly as she did, before he moves around to mirror her position next to her. Emma glances his way, quickly, before she focuses back on the ceiling.

“Why do you care if you don’t believe me?”

“Humour me,” she replies. She doesn’t want to tell him she’s just trying to poke holes in his stories, to try and find the flaws in it just to prove it’s all in his head and not the reality. Not _their_ reality. “What’s this curse?”

A few more moments of silence, before Leo starts explaining. “The Evil Queen, she – she really hates Mama, okay? Not just the ‘fairest of them all’ thing, although Mama never talked about it much. Anyway, Mama did something bad by accident when she was little, and the Evil Queen never forgave her. She banished Mama from her own kingdom, and then got even more pissed when Mama and Papa took it back a few years later. She cast the curse so that she would be the only one to get a happy ending. She wanted to take happiness away from everyone else and – we didn’t know what she wanted to do but. We do, now.”

Emma frowns. “She sent everyone, including herself, to a town where she can be a power-hungry mayor but nobody remembers who they are. What kind of fucked-up happy ending is that?”

“Well, she’s not exactly known to be the _Smart_ Queen,” Leo scoffs.

Emma does a very poor job of suppressing a smile of her own. She isn’t quite ready to call Madam Mayor her nemesis yet, but it doesn’t mean she can’t enjoy trash-talking her anyway. The woman more than deserves it, seriously, with her uptight, better-than-thou attitude.

“So how do you remember everything? You weren’t cursed?”

“Oh, I was.” Emma frowns against, and turns her head to stare at Leo – he’s frowning too, as if confused by his own thoughts. “I have this – this different set of memories in my head, like I lived them but not really? It’s hard to explain but – yeah I was cursed like everybody else. I found the book a few weeks ago and, and I touched it and everything came back. It was weird.”

Emma wonders what that feels like, memories. Hers are only a few years old at best, not polished or altered by time itself, not really. Everything before the woods is just a mystery to her, a big question mark seared into a brain. She wonders what is worse, fake memories or no memories at all, before she remembers you can’t have fake memories – it’s all just a story in Leo’s head.

“My memories are gone,” she states the obvious. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Leo replies sincerely. “We were both supposed to travel through the wardrobe but – it was too late, for me. It shouldn’t have been too late for you. You were supposed to remember so – I really don’t know.”

Emma’s frown deepens – she has tried it a hundredth time, focusing on her lost memories in hope of remembering something, anything. It’s even more so frustrating now, knowing she could be sharing memories with Leo but can’t remember anything at all. Can’t even remember he _existed_ , before this week – how can she just up and forget she has a brother, a family? The doctors told her it was perfectly normal, that trauma can do that to a person. It doesn’t make it any less unfair, though, seventeen years of her life just erased from her brain as if they never happened, as if her life never existed before she appeared in the woods, lost and scared.

“So that’s it? I’m supposed to defeat the Evil Queen and bring back everyone’s happy ending. That’s your story?”

Leo’s jaw clenches as he sits up, purposefully avoiding her gaze. He sighs, hand coming up to rub his face in defeat. “It’s not a story,” he tells her softly, like he’s too exhausted for his own good. He may be only a teenager but, in that moment, he looks older than he should be.

“You’re asking me to believe in curses and magic and – and _fairytales_. Come on, Leo. Would you believe it?”

He opens his mouth, no doubt with the idea of contradicting her just for the heck of it, but the words die on his tongue before he closes his mouth and his jaw clenches once more. He still won’t look at her, too, and Emma knows when she no longer is welcomed somewhere. So she puts the pillow aside and stands up, not knowing what to do at first as she walks toward the door.

She stops in the doorframe, and turns around to look at her brother. “I wish I could be who you want me to be, but I’m not. I’m sorry.”

When she closes the door behind her, Emma sees a glimpse of Leo falling back down on the mattress, his frustrated groan echoing in the silence of the house. She closes her eyes, fighting against the feeling that creeps its way into her chest and around her heart – the bitter taste of being a disappointment on her tongue as she swallows around the knot in her throat.

She’s letting Leo down without even meaning to, and it hurts more than she expected. She doesn’t know what to do with those new feelings, with being the big sister her little brother looks up to – it’s a big enough pressure already, being Henry’s mother and superhero. She doesn’t need to crush the hopes and dreams of another boy just because he has such high expectations of her, expectations she’ll never be able to meet up.

She’s no princess, and she certainly is no saviour. It’s probably better for Leo to understand that sooner than later, even if it hurts like a bitch – even if Emma now feels like shit, just thinking about it. She curses under her breath as she goes back to her own bedroom to finally unpack.

Henry is outside with Mary Margaret, because he really wanted to try the swing in the garden, and so it leaves Emma the luxury of staying alone with her thoughts for a little while longer. She plugs her phone in before focusing on her travel bag. But when she opens it, she soon forgets about shoving pieces of clothing into drawers, because the first thing she sees is the file Regina gave her yesterday. The one she bitterly said she would file and give the Mayor today, just to have the last word.

Emma squares her shoulders, and grabs a pen.

 

…

 

She drops the file on the desk, smirking a little when it startles Madam Mayor out of her work. The other woman glares at her, and Emma’s smile only widens more, proud that she managed to antagonize her so effortlessly. Ingrid says that she has way too many chips on her shoulders, and Ingrid isn’t exactly wrong. She’s better at making enemies than friends, clearly, and the mayor falls into the first category oh so easily.

“Today, as promised.”

Regina takes the file like it’s about to blow up in her face any moment now, or like it’s dirty from Emma’s little hands all over it, which. Could she be any more patronizing, seriously? Probably not, but then again. Rich, arrogant people always have an ace up their sleeve, so Emma knows better than to be too confident about the way she manages to ruffle the other woman’s feathers. She would like to keep the upper hand, thank you very much.

“You need a permanent address,” Regina tells her before she even opens the file. “Granny’s doesn’t count.”

“I have a permanent address,” Emma replies with another little smirk. “We are now rooming with Mary Margaret Blanchard.”

Regina isn’t really good at keeping her feelings in check, let alone hide them when it matters – she pales at the mention of Mary Margaret, before she purses her lip in what can only be qualified as an angry pout. If looks could kill, Emma would be dead on the spot with the intensity of such a glare.

It’s gone in a second, before Regina’s façade comes back, but Emma prides herself with being able to get such a reaction out of her. She wonders what the poor, and adorable, school teacher ever did to the mayor to be at the receiving end of such hatred – Leo’s words still play in her head, but Emma discards them. Not as easily as she would like, but she discards them anyway.

“Very well,” Regina replies – just like with her face, she doesn’t quite manage to hide the anger in her voice. Emma wonders how she even decided to start a career in politics, with such a non-existent poker face. “I will send the file to the relevant authorities, then.”

For a moment, Emma wonders if the relevant authorities are the bin at Regina’s feet, but she doesn’t voice that thought out loud. Instead, she offers the other woman her most sarcastic smile, even more so when Regina grabs the file from the very tip of her fingers to put it aside. The mayor then looks back at her, and offers her the most disdainful wave Emma has ever seen in her life – dismissed in the worst way possible.

She rolls her eyes before she turns around and leaves the office – very purposefully not closing the door behind her, just out of spite. Slamming it would be satisfying, but not as much as the thought of Regina having to stand up and close the door herself. Emma smirks despite her anger, leaving the building as fast as she can – she will not stay here for longer than is necessary, and she’d rather spend time with Henry instead. With all that happened during the next couple of days, she barely had time to sit and play with him, and it’s starting to weigh down on her.

Of course, it’s asking too much of the universe to have this, just an hour or two of peace. Because the moment she steps outside of the city hall, her eyes land on the guy leaning casually against the wall, like he is waiting for her, like he’s been waiting for a long time. She mentally groans at the sight of him, even more so when his eyes meet hers and he stands straight, coming closer.

“Look who the cat dragged in,” he says with a shit-eating grin, the kind Emma wants to punch off his face. She barely had a conversation with him, but it was enough to know he isn’t the type of man she wants to spend time with – unless it involves a lot of alcohol and a shitty hotel room, but even then Emma has better standards than that. Arrogance never was a turn-on for her.

“Are you stalking me now?”

His grin widens a little as he points to something behind her. When Emma looks above her shoulder, she’s greeted with the sheriff station standing around the corner, which. Okay, it does make sense, for him to be here if he’s just been released. It still doesn’t explain the creepy stalkery behaviour, but it makes sense in context.

“Not everything is about you, love,” he replies softly, sarcasm dripping off his every word.

“Which is exactly why you were waiting for me. Because it’s not about me.”

Something flashes through his eyes – something that looks a lot like amusement, as if arguing with her is the most entertaining thing that ever happened in his life. But then again he lives in a boring little town in the middle of nowhere and gets arrested on a daily basis so – yeah, Emma probably is the most entertaining thing that ever happened to him.

“You’re a smart lass, aren’t you?” he grins, and she rolls her eyes. His expression sobers when he looks at the town hall, though. “You can’t trust her.”

The edge to his voice brings a cold shiver to Emma’s spine. She doesn’t need him to tell her Regina is dangerous, but the way he states it, with venom on his tongue and daggers in his eyes, speaks of more than a power-hungry mayor. It speaks of a cruel woman that you shouldn’t antagonize, for you own good – and Emma has gone out of her way to do just that.

“I can take care of myself,” she tells him before she shoves him aside so she can walk toward the bug.

She isn’t exactly surprised that he follows her, but it frustrates her too. Between Leo’s fantasies and Regina’s everything, her patience is wearing thin and she would rather not start a screaming match with a stranger in the middle of the street, thank you very much. Or perhaps it’s exactly what she needs, snapping at a stranger without fearing the consequences.

“You have no idea what you’re up against if you –”

“Listen,” she retorts as she turns around to glare at him. “I’m not about to take some advice from an asshole who was insulting me only hours ago.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw as he looks away from her, chest rising with a silent sigh – as if grounding himself not to yell at her the way Emma wants to yell at him. Good then. Her feelings for him are mutual.

“Fine, _princess_.” Never has such a word felt more like an insult, and Emma almost takes a step back from the strength of it. “Have fun getting your life ruined by her.”

“ _Fine_ ,” she shoots back angrily. “Have fun getting arrested again tonight.”

“Brat.”

“Dick.”

And there is it again, that gleam in his eyes. Emma seriously wonders if he’s getting off arguing with her, like some kind of weird kink – which, she’s not judging. Only she is, because it’s ridiculous, and so is the way the tip of his ears turn red with anger and frustration. The tip of his pointy ears. Weird.

She shakes the thought away as her glare intensifies. The level-headed option would be to walk away, be the mature one in this situation. Emma isn’t really good at being level-headed, or mature – what she’s good at is stubbornness, and she’ll be damned if she loses that staring contest.

He looks away, and she smirks.

“Whatever,” he mutters under his breath, before he walks away.

Emma doesn’t watch him go, in part because she has better things to do, and in part because he would be the kind to check if she’s watching, and she doesn’t want to give him the pleasure of thinking she cares. Instead, she grabs her keys and opens her car, sits behind the wheel. With a groan, loud this time, she lets her head fall on the wheel, careful not to trigger the horn.

She needs a nap. A long one.

 

 


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... literally have no excuses. Well, I do, but oh well. I'm going to stop promising updates, and just hope the next one with come sooner rather than later.

The following morning, Emma wakes up to a silent house. It takes her long seconds, still hiding under the warmth of her blanket, to realise that Henry isn’t even up yet – and only a moment after that to fully appreciate it. Her son usually is the type to rise with the sun, and to wake her up immediately to be entertained. She can’t remember the last time she even indulged in a late morning – her phone tells her it’s 9am, a treat. She stretches her limbs lazily before, quiet as a mouse, she makes her way out of her room and down the stairs.

Her fingers hover over the on button of the coffee machine, before she decides against it. Instead, she goes back upstairs to change and grab her wallet. It doesn’t take her long then to climb into the bug and to drive to Granny’s. Only a few customers are inside when she arrives, the morning rush long gone, and she moves toward the counter with a smile to the waitress. It is the one she already saw the other day, the one with the stinky eye for Madam Mayor.

She wears Granny’s working uniform, mile-long heels on her feet and red streaks in her hair. She has that way about her, like the cool aunt that gives you treats at Christmas with a wink, and Emma decides immediately that she’s going to like her. She doesn’t even know the woman’s name, but her guts tell her to like her. And she always trusts her guts.

“Oh hi,” the woman tells her with a big smile. “How can I help you?”

“Four hot chocolates with cinnamon to go and…” Emma looks at the cakes under their cloches on the counter, bites down on her lip. “What pastries do you recommend?”

She perks up, just a little. “There’s a batch of blueberry muffins, just out of the oven. They’re huge, they’re my favourite.”

“Well, four of those too, please.”

The waitress nods, before she starts on Emma’s order. She first picks the four muffins and puts them in a paper bag, before she grabs paper cups and moves toward the coffee machine. It hums and clangs happily, loudly, and she presses this and that button before turning around to look at Emma again.

“You’re Mary Margaret’s new roommate, right?” Emma barely has time to nod, before she goes on, “MM is great, you’ll see! We went to school together.”

Emma can only offer a tight-lipped smile in reply, not knowing what to do. As always when people talk about their past and their childhood, she can’t help but be wondering – how was she as a kid? Did she have friends? Do they even worry about her? She tries her best not to think about Leo’s stories and theories, far-fetched yet fitting, and shakes her head ever so slightly to focus back on the waitress in front of her.

Not that the other woman seems to mind – she talks _at_ Emma more than she talks with her, which is fine by Emma too. She’s not very comfortable, or even skilled at, doing small talk anyway. Which is something that the older woman excels at, apparently. She keeps talking even as she gets Emma’s order ready, cups neatly put in a little paper tray next to the bag of pastries. She slides everything closer to Emma on the counter before taking her money, giving her the change back with a bright smile.

“Say hi to MM for me.”

“Will do,” Emma replies as she puts a few coins in the tipping jar before she grabs her order and makes her way toward the front door.

She struggles to open the door, hot chocolates in her hands and the bag full of pastries tucked under her arm. When she does, looking down to make sure not to drop anything, it’s with a startle at finding somebody standing right in front of her. She lets out a breath, willing her heart to stop racing as she takes the other person in.

It’s a teenage girl, around Leo’s age, with black hair falling in front of her eyes. She leans precariously on crutches, and Emma tries not to stare too long at the braces tight around both of her legs, from mid-thigh to mid-calf, black and metal that just looks painful. There’s a wheelchair next to one of the front table, blue backpack hanging from the back of it.

“Do you mind?” the girl asks her, nodding at the door.

“No, of course,” Emma replies, taking a step back to lean against the door and push it open with her shoulder.

The girl leaps her way up the stairs leading to Granny’s and is welcomed by a “Harper! Same as always?” from the waitress. Emma doesn’t hear her answer, the door closing behind her and blocking any sound from inside the dinner.

 

…

 

They have just finished with breakfast, Henry climbing on a stool to clean his mouth and hands in the kitchen sink, when someone rings the bell. One of those ancient bells, the kind that echoes warmly through the whole house and doesn’t really startle you – well, it does startle Henry, and he looks up from his soapy hands with wide eyes.

Mary Margaret goes to the front door, but calls after Emma a few moments later. She and Leo share a look, before he shrugs and she leaves the kitchen. She isn’t surprised to hear footsteps following her, even if Leo stops in the hallway instead of coming all the way to the front door with her.

Emma doesn’t know what – or, rather, who – she expected to find when Mary Margaret called after her, but it sure as hell wasn’t the man she only briefly saw when she first arrived in Storybrooke. He stands as tall as his cane and his small frame allow him, smiling at her with a smile that is meant to be kind but only brings a chill down her spine. Emma has seen this smile many times before, especially from older people who think they can abuse your naivety because you so happen to be younger than them. She isn’t fooled.

“Yes, mister…”

“Gold, Mr Gold. Nice to see you again, Emma.”

He says her name with a soft edge to his voice, as if truly appreciating it and that, along with basically everything else, makes her frown. “Can I help you?”

“As a matter of fact you can. See, I have a proposition for you, I need your help. I’m looking for someone, and I heard you excel in that domain.”

Emma frowns some more, before she glances at Mary Margaret. The other woman looks as confused as Emma feels, and takes this as her clue to remove herself from the conversation with the excuse of a shower awaiting her. She leaves as fast as she can, and Emma forces herself not to look behind her shoulder, at her or at Leo whose eyes she can feel on the back of her neck.

She wonders how exactly people know what her job is – it’s not like she advertised it when she arrived, or like she made conversation with that many people to begin with. And, as far as she knows, it’s only written in the papers the sheriff had her sign when she left the station – and in the papers she gave the mayor about Leo. She forces herself not to curse out loud.

“I have a picture,” the man goes on, handing one to her. It’s grainy, in black and white, obviously taken from an old surveillance camera. It also shows the girl Emma bumped into at Granny’s this morning, one hand gripping her crutch while the other is deep inside a safe. “Her name is Harper Erickson. She stole something quite valuable of mine.”

Emma has no choice but to step aside when Gold decides to enter, limping his way in like he owns the place. From the corner of her eye, she notices Leo standing a little taller, as if ready to jump in at any moment. It would make her smile, if the entire thing wasn’t so damn confusing.

“You should go to the police,” she tells the man.

“She’s just a confused teenager,” he explains. “I don’t want her to get into trouble, or to ruin her life over some mistake. I just want my property returned.”

It almost sounds too good to be true. Emma doesn’t believe people are this nice without wanting for anything in return – Ingrid being a rare exception to the rule – and so she waits for the second shoe to drop, for Gold to tell her what his real motives are.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Well, the benefit of you not being the police is your discretion.”

Yep, there it is, the catch. She doesn’t know what she needs to be wary of exactly, not yet, but she can’t trust Gold – she can’t trust his fake smiles and the way he seems to be playing with facts to get what he wants from her.

“She doesn’t work for free,” Leo calls out suddenly.

Both Emma and Gold turn to look at him, another kind of smile appearing on the man’s lips as his eyes go from one sibling to the other with what can only be described as a satisfied look on his face.

“No, of course not,” he agrees. “I will of course pay you, Miss Swan. And let’s say that having me on your side could be an advantage in the next few weeks.”

She doesn’t miss his pointed look toward Leo, and almost sighs at the trouble that could come with becoming his legal guardian if the mayor decides to be bothersome about it. Emma has no idea how exactly the other woman could be a nuisance, but she doesn’t doubt that she will do her best to ruin everything, just because she seems to be that kind of person. And, well, as sketchy as Mr Gold looks, perhaps an ally wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.

“Fine. Where did you last see her?”

 

…

_Emma usually travels by road when she visits Merida in Dunbroch. It is a week’s ride away from the castle, if nothing comes to disrupt their journey, and it allows her and Roland quality time away from home and the etiquette that comes with it. But Queen Elinor ordered two dozen gowns from some of Mist Haven’s best seamstresses during her last stay at the castle, and Queen Snow doesn’t want them to be damaged during such a long journey. Emma rolls her eyes, knowing fully well that some of those dresses are for Merida and will be ruined in a matter of moments anyway, but she doesn’t contradict her Lady Mother when the latter offers to have her daughter traveling by sea with the garments instead – Emma protests even less when Captain Jones of the Jewel of the Realm is chosen for the journey to Dunbroch._

_It allows her, after all, plenty of time to ogle Lieutenant Jones as she and Charlotte, her mother’s handmaiden, sit in a corner of the ship, either_ _playing_ _cards or reading books. When she first climbed on board, he was wearing his uniform and his ridiculous hat, the one that always makes Emma smile. But now, after two full days at sea, he has discarded both_ **the** _hat and_ _the_ _jacket, sleeves of his shirt rolled up, letting Emma appreciate the well-defined muscles of his forearms._

_“Your mind seems elsewhere,” Charlotte comments after Emma has lost yet another game of piquet._

_Emma doesn’t blush, but she averts her eyes anyway – which doesn’t help, Lieutenant Jones now directly in her line of sight. His eyes find hers across the deck, his smile immediate and dazzling. She loves his smile the most, perhaps, the way it seems so natural for him to grin and how the dimples in his cheeks always appear when his smiles are directed at her._

_“I have no idea what…” Emma starts, only to be cut off by a loud scream._

_It takes another scream, seconds after the first one, for her to understand the word – the “Mermaid!” coming from one of the sailors as he leans above the railing and points to the ocean. Curiosity overcomes her, and Emma is on her feet in a matter of seconds, running toward the man. If the legends are true, and they often are, she isn’t in danger anyway. It is well known that mermaids only go after men, and only when they are in the right mood._

_She leans above the railing, both hands on the hard wood, looking between the waves in hope of catching sight of a sparkling tail. She startles when a warm hand presses against her lower back, looking up to meet Lieutenant Jones’ worried eyes._

_“You think yourself out of danger, but I won’t have you falling into the ocean,” he tells her, his voice barely a soft whisper above the crash of waves against the ship’s hull._

_She smiles back, almost impish. “Even if I fall, I don’t think I will be in that great a danger.” The Lieutenant frowns, confused, but Emma averts her eyes – just in time for her to see a flash of red among the blue. “See?_ Melody _!”_

_Only moments later a head pops out between the waves, black hair falling in front of a pale face. The mermaid brushes the hair away from her eyes with not-so delicate movements, looking up with a grin. “Emma!” she replies with a laugh. “Did I scare them?”_

_“A bit,” Emma replies with a smile of her own. “Do you want to come aboard?”_

_Captain Jones agrees to it fairly quickly, an amused look on her face as she watches one of her sailors throwing a lifebelt so the mermaid can hold on to it and be pulled up. Lieutenant Jones just shakes his head by Emma’s side, a small ‘Unbelievable’ on his lips that makes her grin at him – the eye contact is longer than propriety would allow, but nobody is here to chastise Emma for her lack of etiquette anyway._

_She grabs a nearby blanket when Melody is finally on board, throwing it above her friend’s tail. The other girl plays around with her necklace and, with a flash of green light, the tail peeking out from the bottom of the blanket turns into pale toes that she wriggles a little._

_“Awkward,” she comments as she tries to stand up, stumbling a bit. Emma is at her side, ready to catch her before she falls, and Melody thanks her with a smile as the blonde princess helps her moving until she sits on a nearby barrel. “I wanted to frighten them just enough to be funny. You ruined my plans, Emma of Mist Haven.”_

_“You frightened them well enough, believe me.”_

_The men still seem a little shaken and uncomfortable. They stare at the mermaid’s legs, even hidden behind the blanket, and Emma rolls her eyes at their antics and at how spooked they can be by a little bit of magic. As if it is not everywhere around them on a daily basis._

_“Good,” Melody replies, chin up, a proud look on her face._

_Her Lady Mother had told Emma once about how mischievous Queen Ariel was as a young woman – and how Melody took after her and so much more. Emma often hears stories from sailors, when she wanders the harbour, and how their ships get attacked by a mermaid, just enough to lull them with songs but not to do harm. Melody has quite the reputation among them, even more so than her deadlier cousins._

_“Excuse me for the interruption, my lady,” Lieutenant Jones chimes in. Both girls turn to look at him, and the curiosity in his eyes leaves place to embarrassment as his cheeks and ears turn red. “But how does this work?”_

_He tries not to stare at Melody’s legs the way the other sailors do, but still glances down to convey the meaning of his question. Not that Melody minds – she doesn’t really mind anything, really._

_“This necklace,” she explains, showing him the golden seashell around her neck, “was given to me by my grandfather. I can use it to turn my tail into legs and be on land.”_

_Melody doesn’t go into details, not the way she did when Emma first asked her all those years ago – how she was born human but longed for the ocean, the way her mother longed for the land. How King Triton gave her the magic to live in the ocean with him. How magic always comes with a price, and now her legs are no longer able to hold her body, how complicated and even painful it is for her to walk. She doesn’t regret being a mermaid, but she also knows that she can no longer be a human now, not without suffering._

_“Magic is amazing,” Emma comments offhandedly._

_The Lieutenant is_ _looking_ _at her, not Melody, when he replies, “It truly is.”_

 

…

 

When she works, Emma usually puts herself in the person’s head – where would they go? Why are they hiding in the first place? What makes them feel safe? She learnt everything there is to know about tracking criminals and, even if she’s still young, she’s becoming very effective at doing her job. More effective than tracking down cheating husbands, which was was she was doing at first before it became too depressing to be worth the pay check.

So she tries to put herself in a teenage runaway’s head, only to chuckle when she doesn’t even remember what being a teenager feels like. It would be easier if she knew where to look first – a mall of some sort, perhaps – but it doesn’t help either that Storybrooke is such a small town with so much forest surrounding it. Not that Emma believes that Harper Erickson would just wander around the forest, what with her wheelchair and her crutches. She would only make things more complicated for herself.

Still, even if Emma can’t put herself in the girl’s head, there is one thing she can try.

The waitress is still there, thankfully, when Emma enters Granny’s, with her brother following close. She had to leave Henry behind, and would have left Leo too if he wasn’t as stubborn as his sister. There is no way to convince him to stay home with Mary Margaret and his nephew, so Emma has no other choice but to take him with her. She isn’t quite sure yet if it is a good or a bad idea.

She tried the Ericksons’ house first, but didn’t get any results. The girl’s father seemed as confused about the news as he was concerned about his daughter’s well-being, way too lost to be faking it. Still, Emma had asked him a couple of questions and had checked the girl’s bedroom, and it hadn’t been conclusive at all. Which ultimately led her to Granny’s.

She makes a beeline for the waitress, standing at the end of the room as she waits for some plates to be sent in by the cook. The older woman barely glances at Emma, and only squints at her when Emma shows her the blurry picture of Harper Erickson.

“Do you know where I could find her?”

“Lots of people coming here. Doesn’t mean I track their every move.”

Emma raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “This one clearly is a regular.”

The waitress shrugs, purposefully unhelpful, before she grabs some plates and goes back to serving her customers, tray against her hip as she moves to a table to pour some coffee in a man’s mug and give two women their breakfast.

“Come on, Ruby,” Leo tries, following her like a damn puppy across the diner. She barely glances at him, even when he stops only a few inches away from her. “We don’t want Harper to get into trouble. You know I wouldn’t let anything happen to her.”

Emma’s eyebrows shoot up, but she doesn’t comment on the earnestness in Leo’s voice, or the sincerity in his eyes. There is something here, something she can’t point out, so Emma lets it slide for now. If it gets them what they need, she can let it slide.

The waitress, Ruby, seems to hesitate for long seconds, her eyes travelling between Emma and Leo, before she sighs loudly. “Fine. But I’m doing it for you, not for her.”

Leo beams at her and, for a moment, Emma believes he’s even going to hug her. But he doesn’t, simply offering her a grin. “Thanks, Rubs. You’re the best.”

“You’re the worst,” she replies. Then, turning toward Emma, “She took my car an hour ago. Said she had some business outside of town.”

Leo’s smile dies on his lips, and Emma’s own face goes slack – can the girl even drive a car, what with her legs? Emma turns to her brother to voice her worries, but he apparently has another idea in mind, coming towards her to grab her arm.

“She can’t leave town. The curse. She just can’t.”

Even if she still doesn’t believe his stories, the panic in Leo’s eyes is enough to convince Emma that something really wrong is about to happen. Could have happened already. Shit.

“Let’s go,” she tells him. “Thanks, Ruby.”

“Call me when you find her,” the waitress replies.

Leo throws her a thumb-up above his shoulder before dashing away, Emma jogging behind him as she fishes for her keys in the pocket of her jeans. The bug is parked just outside Granny’s, so it doesn’t take them long to jump inside and for Emma to turn on the ignition. She hands her phone to Leo, just in case. Better safe than sorry, after all.

“What even is this curse and why can’t you tell me everything at once?” she asks as she takes a left turn at the end of Main Street.

“Nobody can get out of town, nobody can come in,” he explains.

“You got out.”

“Yeah, cause. I don’t know, Saviour magic or something. You can get out too, nobody else can. They never tried anyway, since time was frozen for so long, they had no point in trying. But you showed up and time started again and now things are changing.”

“This is so ridiculous,” she comments, not even daring to glance at her brother. She is tired of his disappointed looks already, and the hint of betrayal she can see in his eyes every time she refutes his explanations and stories. She can’t handle the fact that she isn’t who he thought she would be, that she’s letting him down somehow.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t make the rules,” Leo retorts, making Emma smile despite herself.

She speeds up the moment they leave town, little houses turning into forest. They don’t pass a single car, the road so empty it makes Emma uncomfortable. Not for the first time, she finds herself wondering why there doesn’t seem to be a single outsider in Storybrooke, apart from her. Not a single car passing by, not a single person stopping for fuel or food on their way to or from Portland.

Not that she wonders about that for a very long time, when a curse falls out of her lips as soon as she notices the car on the side of the road, one door opened and white smoke coming out of the hood. She speeds up before coming to a hard stop next to it, jumping out of the car immediately. Faint cries for help come from the other side of the car, and Emma runs around it only to find Harper on the ground.

There is a deep cut on her cheek, blood pouring out of it, and her leg is at too much of an awkward angle not to be broken. Emma falls to her knees next to her, getting rid of her jacket. It will be ruined, but she presses it to the girl’s face anyway to stop the blood.

“Call 911,” she tells Leo. He struggles with her phone, hands trembling as he types the three numbers before pressing the phone to his ear. Emma focuses back on the girl, brushing Harper’s hair away from her face so it doesn’t get stuck in her wounds. “It’s okay. You’re okay now, they’re going to take care of you.”

“Mr Gold…”

“Don’t worry about him. I’ve got it covered.”

The girl nods, biting down on her pale lips. Her face is pale too, from the pain and the blood loss, and Emma is pretty sure she’s going to pass out soon. But, for now, she’s only holding the jacket to her face, her hand next to Emma’s around the fabric, while her other hand doesn’t let go of the pendant around her neck. It’s golden, quite big, and no doubt what Gold is after. Emma sighs.

“I’ve got it covered,” she says a second time, more to herself than to Harper.

The sirens of the ambulance echo in the distance, Harper leaning with her head against Emma’s shoulder. She wraps an arm around the teenage girl, holding her close and wondering how exactly she managed to get herself into the kind of mess that involves taking care of so many teenagers at once.

 

…

 

Emma calls Mary Margaret on the way to the hospital, and the other woman is already in the waiting room by the time they arrive. Henry jumps into her arms, Emma holding onto him tightly as she explains the situation to her roommate. Leo is trailing behind one of the nurses like a lost puppy, visibly distraught by his friend’s fate, even if it only involves a broken leg, a few stitches, and scratches and bruises.

“Harper!”

A man runs into the room, only stopping before he crashes into a nurse. His hair is black, his face round, so like his daughter that it is actually striking. His eyes are frantic as he grabs the nurse by the arms and asks her news about Harper. She does so with an understanding smile, telling him that she is still being taken care of right now and that Dr Whale will come to give him news in a few moments. Then the nurse points to Emma, and the man looks at her, worry and relief both in his eyes.

“Thank you,” he tells her in a sigh. “I don’t know what I would have done – her mother passed away years ago, I can’t lose her too.”

“It’s okay,” Emma replies, patting his arm awkwardly.

She’s never been good in those kinds of situation. Thankfully, Dr Whale shows up at the same moment, calling after Mr Erickson and saving Emma. Leo stays a few feet away from the two men, listening on their conversation, and Emma keeps an eye on him even as she plays with Henry’s hair and keeps updating Mary Margaret on the events of the day. The petite brunette nods, before taking out her phone and explaining that she will call Ruby and tell her everything is fine.

Which leaves Emma alone with Henry in the waiting room, until she feels eyes on her. She turns around, only to find Mr Gold in the doorframe, leaning on his cane and looking creepy as ever. She frowns at him, even more so when he offers her a sweet smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I must say I’m impressed by your methods, Miss Swan.”

She gently presses Henry’s head to her shoulder, hand on his ear, so he doesn’t have to listen to the conversation. Thankfully, he understands the message, closing his eyes too. “You’re not getting the necklace.”

Gold tsks at her, shaking his head a little. “Come on now, Miss Swan. We have an agreement. And my agreements are always honoured. If not, I'm going to have to involve the police, and that girl is going to have way more troubles than a broken leg. We wouldn’t want that to happen now, would we?”

Emma stands her ground, back straight and chin high. “Not gonna happen.”

“I’m afraid this is not a decision for you to make.” His smile turns amused as he tilts his head to the side. “You are stubborn and loyal, I admire that. How about we make a new deal, Miss Swan?”

“What kind of deal?”

“I let the girl keep the necklace,” he offers, his voice suddenly an octave higher, as he points a long finger toward her with a grin, “And in exchange you owe me a favour.”

“What kind a favour?”

He laughs, the sound chilling. “Any kind, that’s the beauty of it.”

Emma hesitates, before she remembers how Harper wouldn’t let go of the necklace, and what her father said about losing her mother. No doubt the necklace used to belong to Mrs Erickson, and it would be a sacrilege to take it away from her.

“Seems like we have a deal.”

“Seems like we do, indeed,” Gold agrees with another one of his forced smiles.

That is when a nurse arrives, telling Emma that Harper wants to see her. She leaves the waiting room with a last glance toward Gold, willing herself to focus on something else than his creepiness as she walks down the hospital’s corridor. Harper’s room is bright, making her look pale in comparison, her broken leg propped up on a huge pillow. She grins at Emma when she enters the room, and thanks her warmly. The golden necklace is still around her neck, her father caressing her hair, and Emma can only nod around a smile of her own.

When she leaves the room it’s to find Leo down the corridor. He stands in front of one of the windows between the hallway and the bedrooms, hands in the pockets of his hoodie and a concerned look on his face. Emma walks toward him, stopping at his side and following his eyes. A man is lying in bed, hooked up to a machine that shows his heartbeat, seemingly asleep.

Emma frowns. “Who am I looking at?”

“Prince David of Mist Haven,” Leo replies simply. Then, with a glance her way, “Our father.”


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, two months between updates isn't so bad, right?

Emma can only blink at Leo’s revelation, mouth opening in a wordless gasp as she stares at the man by the other side of the window. Vaguely, she notices the way Henry moves closer to the window, on his tiptoes, hands and nose pressed to the panel. He whispers a simple, “Grandpa?” that makes Emma want to laugh hysterically, or perhaps cry. It’s one thing for Leo to tell her about all of this. It’s another thing altogether for Henry to be caught in this madness – she doesn’t want to give him false hope, not after years of making sure he never calls Ingrid ‘grandma’. He’s still young, confused by those old-people concepts, but one day he will be old enough for Emma to explain what happened to her when she was a teenager.

She doesn’t want to have to explain that Uncle Leo wasn’t telling the truth and it was all in his head. She isn’t even sure there are words to explain those kinds of things.

She wants to glare at Leo, but he’s looking back at her with a pleading look, begging her to believe him, to believe all of this, and she sighs in defeat before focusing back on the man in front of her. His hair is cut short but obviously the same shade of blonde Emma and Leo share. She also notices the dressing on his shoulder, peeking from beneath the collar of his hospital gown. Even from afar, he is handsome. The kind of handsome that makes all the mothers whisper when they wait for their kids at the school’s gates, if this handsome also comes with the ‘single dad’ package.

“What happened to him?” she asks, despite herself.

Nothing seems particularly wrong with the man, if you forget the bandage on his shoulder and maybe the few scratches on his face. She doesn’t want to worry but – well, seems like she’s already doing just that.

“Coma.” Both she and Leo turn their heads to find Mary Margaret moving toward them. She stops next to Emma, and smiles. “Graham found him unconscious in the woods. No ID, nothing. He’s been here for as long as I remember.”

“And how long is that exactly?” Leo asks.

Emma frowns at him, and so does Mary Margaret. But, on the petite brunette’s face, it looks more like confusion than anything else. “Just… A while,” she replies, but it is as vague as it gets. Too vague, perhaps – even Emma who isn’t that good at dates would be able to be more precise than that if she wanted.

“A while,” Leo parrots back softly.

Emma doesn’t need to look his way to know he is staring meaningfully at her, as if making a point. This doesn’t prove anything – Mary Margaret could just be really bad with dates, which would be a problem for a teacher, but not all that alarming or rare. It doesn’t mean Mary Margaret is confused over her own life because of the curse, or whatever other explanation Leo will find to fit his narrative.

Instead, Emma focuses back on Henry, who is still looking at the man by the other side of the window. She puts her hands in the pockets of her jeans, fishing out a crumpled old dollar bill that has seen better days. She doesn’t even bother trying to flatten it. “Henry? How about you and Leo get something from the machine?”

Her son is predictable, and so Emma smiles knowingly when he turns around, big grin on his features, and snatches the dollar bill from her. He doesn’t need more to grab Leo’s hand and pull him down the hallway. The waiting room isn’t that far, after all, and so neither is the vending machine. Emma watches them both go, smirking a little at the glare Leo sends her way. Her smile is quick to die on her lips, though.

“Leo is talking.” She looks at Mary Margaret, confused. “I heard him telling Henry about those… stories. In his book.”

Emma sighs, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. Of course Leo would tell Henry. How easy would it be to convince a kid that fairytales – princesses and knights and dragons and everything – not only exist, but are part of their family’s history? Way too easy, especially with Henry and his overflowing imagination. It would need about five seconds, give or take, for him to believe himself a little prince.

(She doesn’t picture him with a tiny crown on his head.)

(Dangerous thoughts to have.)

“I don’t know how to make him stop,” she admits.

After all, if someone knows how to handle kids, it’s a teacher, right? Not that Emma would know. But she guesses.

The petite brunette doesn’t offer words of advice or reassurance, though. Instead, she looks pensive, casting a glance at the man at the other side of the window, before she looks back to where Henry and Leo just disappeared. “According to him, I would be…”

“Snow White.”

“Your mother.”

They say it at the same time, staring at each other in shock, before a nervous giggle escapes Mary Margaret’s lips. It’s a little too loud for its own good, and she shakes her head ever so slightly. Everything about her – her reaction, the way she seems to be recoiling from it – tells Emma that she doesn’t believe it… But then she glances at the man once more, and Emma isn’t so sure anymore.

“So that would be…”

Her voice rises at the end with the question she doesn’t dare to ask.

“Yep,” Emma replies, rocking on her heels as she puts her hands in her pockets, shoulders rising in a defence mechanism.

Thankfully for her, Henry comes back running a few moments later, allowing her to avoid Mary Margaret’s reaction and melancholic eyes. Instead, she forces a smile on her lips, and kneels down to wipe a smudge of chocolate on Henry’s mouth. Leo is holding the remaining half of the Apollo bar for him, but he’s staring at Mary Margaret staring at the man, and Emma decides that her life is definitely too complicated to handle right now.

 

…

_“Your feet,” he tells her, his sword hitting her shin slightly so she would change her stance._

_Emma only glares at him, not moving. “My feet are fine,” she replies between gritted teeth._

_“And your knees.”_

_He doesn't touch her with his sword this time, and Emma replies, “My knees_ _are_ _fine,” once more. Still, she vents her knees and shifts on her feet, changing her stance when her father takes a few steps back. Just enough to correct herself, but not so much that her father would notice. She inherited her mother’s stubbornness, after all._

 _“Yes, papa, her knees are fine,” Leo parrots from where he stands,_ _not_ _far from them._

_Emma sends him a glare, to which he replies with a click of his heels and a sarcastic bow, before he focuses back on Lancelot’s orders. Emma misses the time when she too would train with the Head of the Guard. He would be far stricter than her father, but Emma also felt less judged under his tutelage. Less like she has something to prove to the world._

_“Good,” her father says._

_And then his sword hits her, the blow so strong_ _Emma_ _’s entire body quivers, her own sword flying away and landing a few feet away from her in the sand. She glares at it too, as if blaming the weapon for its betrayal, when she perfectly knows it was her fault all along. Her feet were not right, her balance lost in the momentum of her father’s blow. She would rather drink a sleeping potion than admit her mistake, though._

_“Leo is distracting me,” she states petulantly before her father can make a comment._

_He_ _raises an eyebrow; they both read the lie in her words. Still, her father is kind enough not to probe too much, or to state the true facts -- the Jewel of the Realm will anchor in the harbour tonight, and Emma's mind is too busy thinking of her suitor to focus on anything else. It doesn't stop the_ _king_ _from offering his daughter a few words of wisdom, though._

_“In combat, you cannot allow yourself to be distracted.”_

_She knows that. She also wants to tell him the chances of finding herself in combat are slim to begin with. But then she glances Leo’s way, and sees Gideon next to him, taking care of the king’s armour, and she swallows back her words. The ogres are a problem they are yet to deal with, and Emma might find herself at the head of an army sooner rather than later, if things go sour. She doesn't want to go to war unprepared._

_“I know,” is her only reply, before she takes a defensive stance again -- minding her feet and knees this time -- before she nods to her father._

_When he attacks this time, she is ready to fight back._

 

...

 

“Mommy, look! Mommy, no hands!”

Emma laughs at Henry raising his arms high in the air, fingers stretching out as if ready to grab the clouds above his head. He wriggles his butt closer to the edge, before an excited giggle escapes his lips when he goes down the slide as fast as gravity will allow. She loves him so much, and envies his childish naivety, how happy he can be and how he doesn’t let anything worry him too much.

Already, he’s running toward another display on the playground, jumping to climb on the monkey bars despite his coat hindering his movements. Not that he cares, too busy having fun to notice he looks like an overexcited snowman.

Emma is about to grab her phone and snap a picture, when someone comes to stand next to her, casting a shadow all over her face. When she looks up, the man is half hidden, sun in his back making Emma blink and raise a hand above her eyes.

“Sheriff,” she greets him with a sigh. “Come to see if I’m destroying any municipal property?”

He chuckles a little – he always seems to be doing that, or smile, or look happy, and Emma doesn’t know if she can trust someone who is that freaking jovial all the time. “No, actually. I came to offer you a job.”

“Does it involve trying on sunglasses?” she asks with a sarcastic smile.

He gets the hint, sitting down next to her on the bench. Henry is too busy trying to reach the top of the monkey bars to notice his mother is no longer giving him her entire attention, so she shifts in her seat, just enough to face the sheriff while still keeping her son in the corner of her eye.

“Your brother and roommate are both involved in a missing person case.”

“Oh, for fuck’s…”

“They didn’t do anything,” he placates her. “Not yet, at least.”

“That’s reassuring.”

He raises an eyebrow, the only sign that sarcasm is not welcomed here, before he goes on. “I’ve heard what you did with the Erickson girl. You could be helpful.”

“I’m not a blue collar type of gal.”

The sheriff’s smile is sardonic to say the least, even more so when he explains that Mary Margaret and Leo went to the hospital earlier this afternoon, for the first time since the Harper thing a few days ago, and were the last known visitors Joe Doe had before he suddenly vanished into thin air – they were also the ones to notice and call the station when it happened. Even though the sheriff told them to stay put and that he would lead the search party, it didn’t stop them from heading into the woods together. So now he has a comatose man to find, as well as two civilians to placate. And he is a one-man task force, so he can’t really do both at once. And Emma so happens to be good at finding people, if the way she handled the Erickson case is anything to go by.

Emma waits a few moments after he is done with his explanation, just in case he wants to add something, some more arguments about how the police is awesome and she would be so glad to be part of the squad. As it is, he doesn’t offer such words. But Emma knows she will have to find a job, one way or another – school break is already over, and she’s in over her head with both Leo and Henry even if it hasn’t been a week yet. And it is true she is good at what she does – and there is not a lot of work for her old job here anyway. Might as well…

“How much?” she asks, ever the practical one.

He shrugs. “Let’s just try it out today and then we’ll see?”

Might as well, indeed. Emma can only go so far with what little money she has saved up until now, most of which she wants to keep for Henry’s university tuition. With another mouth to feed, and rent to pay, she will not say no to that kind of easy money.

“Okay,” she shrugs back. “I just need someone to look after Henry.”

“I know exactly the right person for the job.”

Which is how Emma finds herself trailing through the forest half an hour later, sheriff in tow (‘Graham. You can call me Graham.’) and about no idea what she is doing. She is good at finding people online, following their internet history and social networks and finding them in the weird parts of Craigslist. Actually finding people in the middle of nowhere, though? Definitely not her thing.

She’s never liked the woods anyway, too deep and green and too much of a reminder of her old story. Henry sometimes tries to convince her to go camping, but he’s never succeeded so far. They rented a little apartment by the beach, once, which was more than enough. Spending more than two days in the mountains, definitely not her thing.

They’ve been going at it for the best part of an hour, calling after Mary Margaret and Leo while still looking out for their John Doe, when Emma hears her name being called back in the distance. She stops and turns her head, and Graham nods at her to follow him in the new direction. They stumble upon her brother and roommate only minutes later – Mary Margaret breathless and with bits of dead leaves in her hair, while Leo doesn’t look worse for wear, pink high on his cheeks. Like he’s used to walking around the woods with a purpose.

“What the hell, guys?” Emma starts, glaring at her brother.

Graham jumps right in before she has time to find the words for a proper lecture, though. “Did you find him?”

Everything about the questions he asks shows he is good at interrogating people, and he only needs a few minutes to unfold the full story. That is, Leo convinced Mary Margaret to read parts of his book to the John Doe, hoping it would help waking him up – and that he disappeared on them first chance he got instead.

“Don’t you get it?” Leo asks, agitated. He points to Mary Margaret. “He’s looking for her. She was telling him the story of how they met, and that woke him up, and now he’s looking for her because _he will always find her_.” In his mouth, it sounds like a mantra. “She was telling him about the troll bridge and – oh gods. The toll bridge!”

He’s running away before anybody else has time to understand what is going on, Emma and Graham sharing a confused look before he shrugs helplessly and follows Leo. Emma has no other choice than to grab Mary Margaret’s hand and pull her along.

Thankfully for all of them, the toll bridge is only a few minutes away, and soon Emma finds herself outside of the woods and breathing a little easier with her feet on the concrete of the road. She is about to close the bridge and check the other side, when Mary Margaret’s sharp cry startles her.

Next thing she knows, Emma is climbing her way down to the river bank, rocks and pebbles giving away under her weight. Mary Margaret is already kneeling on the ground, her hands on each side of John Doe’s face, whispering to him. Emma cannot make up the words, too soft compared to the rumbling noise of the river, but she moves closer just in case – Graham behind her is already calling the hospital – and comes to stand by Mary Margaret’s side in time to hear her last words.

“Come back. Come back to me.”

Leo’s scream of disgust is out of his mouth the moment Mary Margaret starts kissing the stranger, turning around and pressing his hands to his eyes not to look. Emma would make fun of him if the situation wasn’t so serious. As it is, she is just left staring, and find herself muttering “That’s definitely not CPR,” which only triggers another expression of disgust from Leo. Maybe she smirks, but only a little.

Her smile vanishes when the stranger takes a loud breath of air, though, opening his eyes before they fall on Mary Margaret. He blinks at her, and Emma blinks at the scene unfolding in front of her – she vaguely notices Leo grabbing her arm with a faint ‘Papa’ on his lips, and is unable to compute what it means. In the distance, the siren of the ambulance is blaring.

“You’re okay,” Mary Margaret whispers, brushing the stranger’s hair away from his face. “You’re okay, see?”

He blinks at her once more, then turns his head to look at Emma and Leo. Emma feels her brother stilling against her, but there isn’t a hint of recognition in John Doe’s eyes. He just looks around him with a frown, lost for words and thoughts.

Then, finally. “Where am I? Who–who am I?”

An amnesiac could-be father.

Emma forces herself not to laugh.

 

…

 

The Ericksons’ apartment is in a building by the harbour, a few streets down the city centre. Emma climbs up the stairs to the first floor, only to groan when she doesn’t find Harper or her father in the hallway, but the asshole she was doing such a fine job of avoiding. He does a double take, focusing back on the front door he is unlocking, before a smirk spreads out on his lips and Emma swallows down another groan. She’s met a lot of annoying men in her life – none quite as slap-worthy as this one, though.

Such a waste of good genes.

“Will you look at that,” he almost singsongs, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Storybrooke’s new hero.”

Emma rolls her eyes at the obvious bait, willing herself not to feed the troll. She’s seen enough of them on the various online platforms where she goes looking for her perps, thank you very much. Still, he is standing between her and the Ericksons’ apartment, and Emma has no other choice than to walk past him.

He isn’t stupid enough to try and stop her, or even touch her, though. Must have guessed she wouldn’t shy away from punching him in the face for it, which makes him smarter than she would have thought at first.

“The lass won’t stop blabbering about you,” he adds with a little nod to the Ericksons’ door. “Says you saved her life and whatnot.”

“Gotta admire a teenage girl’s love for the dramatics.”

“I’ve never known Harper to be a drama queen,” he shrugs, and folds his arms on his chest, leaning against his door. He must misinterpret Emma’s raised eyebrow at the backward compliment, because he adds, “I’ve known her since she was a wee thing, we’ve always been neighbours.”

Emma shrugs, and stares at the door, hoping against hope that he will take the hint and finally leave her alone, so she can pick her kid and go back home. They still have to check his homework, and Leo’s science project, and dinner, and – she sighs. Loudly.

Which, of course, gets an over-dramatic reaction from him, for he raises his arms in surrender and rolls his eyes to the heavens. “Fine,” he says. “Do run away from good company.”

“You’re not good company,” she states, and he rolls his eyes again. Perhaps they’ll get stuck at the back of his head.

“Neither are you,” he shoots back, like a petty child.

Emma bites back a snicker, and hides her smirk as she finally reaches the door and knocks twice on it. Harper is the one to open, in all her crutches-and-broken-leg glory, big grin on her face. “Hi Emma. Oh, hey, James!”

“Hello, little lass.” He offers her a lazy salute, to which the girl replies in kind, before he finally unlocks his door. “See you around, ladies.”

Harper giggles in reply. Emma rolls her eyes at how predictable teenage girls are, before she focuses back on the important. “I hope Henry wasn’t too much to handle.”

“Oh no, he was fine! We watched Finding Nemo and then he played some video games, no problem at all.”

“Glad to hear it.” She enters the living room, and hands Harper a few dollar bills. Henry is lying on his stomach on the floor, playing Mario Kart on what appears to be an old and battered Nintendo 64. It makes Emma smile, before she calls his name and asks him to pack his stuff. He does so quickly, stealing a cookie from the plate on the table, then he says goodbye to Harper around a mouthful of crumbles. She leans on one crutch so she can pat his head.

Henry waits until they are back on the street, before he asks, “Did they find grandpa?” in his most innocent voice.

“He’s not grandpa,” she starts, having no idea where to go from there.

“But Leo said…”

She sighs. “Leo says a lot of things, but it’s not always the truth. Do you understand that?”

“We must always tell the truth,” he recites from memory with a frown. Surely he will tell Leo off about lying, which will snowball into the kind of conversation Emma doesn’t want the two boys to have. A headache appears between her eyes just thinking about it.

“And talking about Leo, we need to pick him up at the hospital before we go home, okay?”

Henry nods, and stays silent through the entire car ride to the hospital. But Emma can see on his pensive face that they are far from done with the subject of Leo, and his stories, and lying. He’s still frowning when they park in front of the hospital, his little fists tight by his sides as he follows her to John Doe’s room.

Unsurprisingly, Leo and Mary Margaret are both still there, talking with Doctor Whale. The man offers Emma a sympathetic smile – she’s been here far too many times for her own good in a short time span – before he goes on to explain that this kind of trauma is familiar with coma patients, but he can’t tell much more. They are not close relatives and, as long as they don’t find out the man’s identity, professional confidentiality will remain just that.

Emma is about to tell everyone that it is more than time to go home now, when a blonde woman runs toward them. Or rather, toward the bedroom behind them.

“David! Oh my god, David!”

“What the…” Leo starts, before the words die on his tongue.

He and Emma both are left staring at the woman as she barges into the room and throws herself at the man. He looks as surprised as Emma feels, even if his hand rises to awkwardly pet the woman’s shoulder when it becomes obvious that she won’t let go of him. He looks the way he did when they found him, though, just as lost and confused about what is going on – whoever that woman is, he doesn’t remember any more than he does anyone else around them.

“What the hell,” Leo tries again, deadpan. He looks between the couple in front of him and Mary Margaret by his side, a look of betrayal in his eyes, before he rubs his face with his hand and turns around. Emma only hesitates for a second before she follows him down the hallway, chasing him and his never-ending, breathless, “What the hell, what the hell, what the hell.”

“Who is she?” Emma asks when they finally reach the waiting room – thankfully empty so late in the evening.

He drops his backpack on a chair, just so he can take his storybook out and open it. Emma recognises the drawing of Snow White, then Prince Charming on another page, before Leo flips through the pages. He stops early on in the book, and shows the illustrations to her. Still Prince Charming, but now with another woman, blonde and tall and dressed in a beautiful white gown.

“That’s Queen Abigail. She’s, like, an aunt to us, she lives in the neighbouring kingdom. You love her, she taught you most of the royal stuff Mama didn’t.” He waits a beat, as if Emma would suddenly remember, then adds, “She was Papa’s betrothed, before he met Mama. An arranged marriage.”

“And now she’s married to him again,” Emma finishes for him. “But why?”

She sits in the empty chair next to Leo’s backpack, hiding her face in her hands. She hates how damn logical everything about Leo’s story is – she hates herself even more for even understanding the logic behind what is happening. Of course the Evil Queen would do everything to make sure Snow White never gets back together with the love of her life, in this cursed alternate universe. It does make a lot of sense – would make for a perfect movie plot, too. But it’s real life, and no matter how fool-proof that whole mess is, it doesn’t change the fact that magic doesn’t exist.

Still, Leo shows her another page of the book, this time with a golden knight. “Queen Abigail is married to Prince Frederick. Papa helped to save him from a curse, so both he and Abigail could go on to marry the people they truly love. And now they’re stuck back together and everyone is going to be miserable all over again.”

She sighs again, and runs a hand through her hair. “Let’s just go home.”

“But…”

“Everyone will still be miserable tomorrow,” she snaps, glaring up at him. “No matter what we do. So let’s go home, it was a long day.”

Mary Margaret’s kicked-puppy look matches Leo’s when she explains that Kathryn Nolan is indeed David Nolan’s wife, that she thought he had left town after a particularly nasty fight and threats of a divorce. That she had no idea he was at the hospital all along. Watching the both of them with equally desperate looks on their face as they make their way back to Emma’s bug, they have never looked more like mother and son.

And it breaks Emma’s heart.


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, two pairs of True Loves are reunited for the first time. Cue to the audience going 'awwww'?

Emma has never been comfortable around cops. Even when she had to work with them, after catching a perp and letting them handle the rest, her interactions with them were minimum. The reminder that they could never do anything for her – not find her identity, and absolutely not find her family – was too painful every time she caught a glimpse of the uniform, a flash of a car, the twinkle of a shiny badge. She would be cordial to them, but nothing more, flying away as soon as her job was done and waiting to collect the check.

Now, she finds herself staring at the beige uniform Graham is proudly handing her, his smirk both amused and mocking, and she forces herself not to poke her tongue out in disgust. She is an adult with responsibilities, and she will get even more of them if she accepts this, but she still refuses to look like she’s five seconds away from turning the music on and stripping in front of a group of frat guys.

She snatches the uniform shirt from him and holds it in front of her own body, tilting her head to the side. “You don’t need to dress a woman as a man to give her authority.”

His little smirk turns into a full grin and, not for the first time, Emma tells herself she could find him handsome if he weren’t twice her age. Old enough to be her father, and she’s never been into that kind of things – her daddy issues draw the line before that, apparently.

“So you think you can get people to do what you want in that red coat?”

Her grin matches his now as she throws the shirt at him. He catches it easily, with only one hand, before it has time to hit his face. Emma is almost disappointed at his good reflexes, the ghost of a pout on her lips.

“I’m getting you to do what I want right now.”

He rolls his eyes in a dramatic manner, but the effect is lost on the fact that he won’t stop smiling. This is something he shares with Mary Margaret, Emma noticed, they are so positive in life all the time and it throws her off more often than not. But she tells herself it might be a good thing in the long run – Henry needs that kind of things in his life, needs more than his grumpy, pessimistic mother. Perhaps it will do him some good, being around different people with different ways of seeing the world.

“At least wear this.”

Emma finds herself catching something before she even has time to process the fact Graham threw it at her face. She looks down at the golden star in her hand, smiling to herself – bail bondsperson seriously was the best she thought she could do for a long while, what with the fact that she could never afford to go to university. It wasn’t a bad job, and she actually enjoyed it a lot, but there is something different, something more about ‘Emma Swan, Storybrooke’s Deputy’. Something that can make Henry proud of his mother, no doubt. She stares at the badge a few seconds longer, before she stands straighter and reaches for the belt around her hips.

She hooks her badge, and the entire town shakes.

Emma looks up at Graham, his eyes as wide as hers, and she barely has time to take a sharp intake of breath before all the phones in the station start ringing as one. Graham runs to his office, picking it up. His smile has disappeared, leaving place to a frown, and he barely shares a few words over the phone before he hangs up and grabs his coat and keys.

“The mine’s collapsed, let’s go.”

“Wha–”

Emma’s expression of surprise dies on her lips as she follows him outside and jumps in the passenger’s seat of the police car. He turns the siren on and drives out of town as fast as possible, still managing to share an amused sideway glance with her.

“And to think you believed Storybrooke to be boring.”

The small laugh is out of her lips before she can stop herself. “Should I apologize?”

He shakes his head and focuses back on the road. Thankfully, the streets of Storybrooke are as empty as they will always be, and Emma only notices the firefighter’s truck following them at a distance – surely excited to finally have something to do with themselves beside climbing trees and saving kittens.

“Sheriff!” Graham barely has time to get out of the car before a teenage boy is running toward him, red and out of breath. He stops to inhale as deeply as he can, before he goes on, “Leo and James are inside.”

Emma’s head snaps at the sound of her brother’s name, staring at the boy instead of the dusty entry to the mines. “Leo?” she tries to ask, her voice coming out as a croak. Her mind goes dizzy for a moment, taking a step back as if she were just punched in the guts. Graham casts her a worrying glance, but she shakes her head and lets him question the boy some more. Emma goes back to their car, with the excuse of calling for an ambulance, so she can catch her breath and gather her wits.

She will kill him. She will kill him a hundred times.

A helpful but worried nurse answers her call and, by the time Emma is done, more cars are showing up alongside the firefighters’ truck. The mayor gets out of an expensive black car, striding her way toward Graham with the confidence only power gives you. Emma jogs back toward her boss, just in time to find herself at the receiving end of the other woman’s deadly glare.

“Thank you, Miss Swan, but your help is not needed today.”

Emma’s sigh hides a groan of frustration, even as she lifts a pan of her jacket, tapping the badge on her hip. The mayor makes an obvious face, not quick enough to hide the anger on her features, before she glares at Graham.

“We had the budget,” he tells her with a shrug.

She purses her lips, upset. “Fine,” she says, even if it is anything but.

“Can we focus back on the two civilians who are stuck in the mines now?” Emma snaps when the other two spend more time staring at each other. Whatever is happening between Graham and the woman, Emma doesn’t want to know, even more so when her brother is in danger. She has her priorities sorted, and town drama is far, far down the list of things she cares about right now.

Graham nods at her, his eyes still not leaving the mayor’s face, before he squares his shoulders and sets himself into motion. The firefighters come to him in that moment, and soon everyone is working on the entrance of the mine. Large rocks have fallen, blocking anyone from entering or leaving, and they try to move them as to create a small entrance.

Half an hour later, nothing much has changed or moved.

Graham turns toward Emma, hands on his hips, and lets out a loud sigh. She wholeheartedly agrees – things will not move any time soon, and they are wasting their time more than anything else at this point. They need a more offensive take on the problem.

“You have any explosives?”

“Calm down, Wile E. Coyote.” Graham shakes his head. “There must be another way in.”

“There is.”

They both turn around to face a man – it takes Emma a few seconds, before she recognizes him as the man in the cell next to hers, the first day she’d woken up in Storybrooke. He seems as sulky now as he did back then, but at least he no longer looks like he is about to insult Emma. And looks like he’s about to help them. Emma counts this as a win.

“There is an old air duct over there. It was sealed a few years back, but we can open it easily. More easily than whatever you’re trying to do there.”

Emma shares a glance with Graham, barely more than a second, before he grabs the other man’s arm in a silent thank you and follows him to said air duct. It is sealed by a grating, and large enough for Emma to go through it without problem. It is soon decided that, if she wears a harness, she can go all the way down the duct and to the mine, find out what is going on, and proceed from there.

Her heart is racing against her ribcage as Graham tightens the harness around her hips, double- and triple-checking every attachment point until he deems it safe enough. She doesn’t feel safe, fear in her eyes when she looks up at him and he nods his approval. He doesn’t offer any word of comfort, but the confidence he has in her may be enough. If he thinks she can do it, then Emma better believe it too.

She nods back, and down she goes.

Slowly at first, careful in her every movement. It becomes easier soon enough, though, and it doesn’t take more than ten minutes for her feet to touch the ground again. Everything around her is dark, the light high above her head barely enough for Emma to see in front of her, and she grabs the flashlight tied to her harness, switches it on.

There goes nothing, she thinks as she moves further into the mine and the darkness. Everything is silent but for the echo of her own footsteps at first but, soon, she starts hearing faint voices that turn into whispers, that turn into a full-on discussion. She turns around a corner only to get startled by Leo’s face a few inches from hers – he startles too, both surprised by her and blinded by the light, one hand in front of his eyes.

“See!” he says happily. “Told you she would save us!”

She’s about to smack the back of his head here and there for being so gleeful when everyone was dead worried about him, until she notices the other person by his side. A very familiar, very frustrating person, and a groan escapes Emma. In her fear for Leo’s well-being, she had forgotten that he wasn’t alone down there, that someone else was with him.

Scratch smacking Leo, she’s angry at that asshole now.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Surprised by her sudden outburst, he is wise enough to take a step back and away from her. Too bad they are in close quarters, though, and that she feels so angry she could throttle him here and there. Good. One less person to go up the air duct, will make things simpler for everyone involved.

“I was simply trying to help the lad…”

“By following him in a mine.” She’s fuming, and she ignores Leo calling her name. “How old are you?”

This isn’t rhetorical and he thankfully gets that – he looks her age, more or less, but Emma needs verbal confirmation right now. And so he takes a step closer again, eyes hard and chin up, ready for battle. “Twenty-five.”

Yep. Right her age.

And Emma knows context is important – not everybody had to grow up as fast as she did, and most people her age are barely out of college, still a bit immature and out of it. She knows so very few find themselves with a kid and a job and tons of responsibilities at twenty-five. But. Still. There is drinking yourself into oblivion just because you can, and there is following a teenager down a mine instead of stopping him. Emma understands the former; the latter, not so much.

Emma is about to reply something, the acerbic words on the tip of her tongue, when the world starts shaking. She raises her hands for balance. Looks at Leo. Checks if he's okay. He nods at her, eyes wide and terrified, and she forgets all about being mad at him when her sisterly instincts kick in. She takes a tentative step toward him, hand reaching for his arm, as he does the same with her, his fingers wrapping around her wrist.

“Let's get out of here,” she tells him.

He agrees, and looks back at James next to them. Emma will shamelessly admit she'd forgotten about him (again) in the few seconds it took the earth to shake but he seems okay and ready to follow them, so she tightens her grip on Leo’s arm before going back the way she went. It only takes them a few minutes to find the air vent.

Only then does Emma notice it used to be some kind of antique lift, so they can use it to go up. It won't exactly be the safest journey, but it's not like they can be picky when time is of the essence.

“Help me, lass.”

They both grab one end of the winch, before Emma looks up at him again. He offers her a nod, a silent agreement to start working on the winch. The lift creaks and shudders, making Emma clench her jaw, before it jumps up a few inches. Then again, and again, until it starts going up in slow, jolting motions.

Emma breaks a sweat after only a few minutes, her arms aching with the weight of the three of them, but she refuses to give up. It is either going up or staying stuck down there, and she knows which option is the better one. So she ignores the bead of sweat rolling down her forehead, ignores James’ grunts, ignores it all until she only focuses on the strength in her arms and Henry waiting for her up there.

She should have worked out more.

“You okay?” Leo asks her, when they’re taking a break so they can even their breathing again.

Her cheeks are red, her back damp with sweat, and she only manages to nod her reply. She doesn’t trust herself to form coherent sentences at the moment.

James looks at her and – perhaps it might be a trick of the light, because she swears he looks concerned for a moment, his eyes moving up and down her body, before they settle on her burning cheeks, then on her eyes again. He stares down then and, with a deep sigh, Emma goes back to work with him.

Or, at least, she tries to.

They put as much strength as they can on the device, yet the lift refuses to move. It shakes a little, but otherwise stays in place. Emma shares a worried glance with James, before they double their efforts. To no avail.

They share another look, longer this time, with the dawning realisation that they are indeed stuck down there. But then James looks down at her hips, offering her a pointed look, and Emma remembers the harness she is still wearing, the rope still dangling next to them. It will take more time, for sure, but it is the only option left if they want to see the light of day again.

“We need to…” he starts.

And then the mine shakes again.

A few rocks fall down the air duct, some hitting Emma’s shoulders, some falling at her feet. It just won’t stop for a few, long seconds, and Leo grabs her wrist. Even with the earth shaking around her, she can still feel him trembling against her, and her final thought is that she refuses to let her baby brother die down there.

“We need to go,” she finishes for James. She grabs the rope, hooks it to her harness the way Graham had done half an hour ago. “I can go with Leo first, then send you the harness.”

She doesn’t wait for his approval, but he still offers a “Works for me, love,” as she turns to Leo. She assesses him for a moment, wondering how to proceed when she doesn’t think herself strong enough to carry him. In the end, he’s the one to decide for her, hands on her shoulders to turn her around before he wraps his arms around her neck. She’s done piggyback rides with Henry before, but he’s tiny and weighs nothing. Leo is a grown-up teenager with enough muscle mass to put a professional sportsman to shame.

She groans a little, but only adjusts his arms so he doesn’t strangle her.

She tugs on the rope twice, and yells Graham’s name for good measure. At first, nothing happens, and then a yelp escapes her lips when they jolt up. Leo’s hold tightens around her shoulders, one of his leg wrapped around her own. She wants to comfort him, to tell him everything will be okay, but her words die in her throat and she can only look up and pray everything will, indeed, be okay.

The mines keep shaking, more and more rocks finding their way down, and she suddenly worries about James – worries they will not have time to go up, send him the harness and let him go up too. She may hate his guts, but it doesn’t mean that she wants him to be trapped down there while they are safe. She couldn’t live with the guilt.

As if she’s just jinxed it, the lift makes a loud creaking sound, jolting down a few inches. She looks down, her widening eyes meeting James’ frightened ones. She wants to hold her hand to him, but she’s already going up and away from him. The lift jolts down again.

Emma and Leo scream at the same time.

In horror first.

Then in pain.

Emma feels like her ankle just got torn from her leg, tears pearling at the corner of her eyes as she grits her teeth against the excruciating pain. She feels like crying – fear and agony mixing in such an ugly way – and breathes loudly not to do just that.

“You okay?” Leo asks, looking down.

“For now,” James replies.

Emma wants to snort – of course he’s okay, he just fucking grabbed her ankle not to fall to his death – but the sound turns into another cry of pain on her tongue. Thankfully, whoever is at the other end of the rope is doing a proper job of it, because it only takes a few more minutes before Emma blinks the sun away from her eyes.

She can feel hands on her shoulders, beneath her arms, as someone pulls her out of the air vent. Leo releases his hold on her back and falls on the ground next to her. James is somewhere a few feet away from her, breathing loudly.

And then she hears the loud, deafening “Mom!” before a tiny body crashes against her chest. The air escapes her lungs in a nervous laugh as she wraps her arms around her son, holds him close to her as if afraid somebody is going to take him away. He kisses her neck, the only part of her body he can reach, and she laughs once more.

When Henry finally lets go of her, Emma notices the boy from before, the one who was already there when she and Graham arrived, kneeling by Leo’s side. She has never seen him before, but he looks about Leo’s age – maybe a year or two older – and as worried as anyone can get in that kind of situation. His hand is on Leo’s knee as he keeps asking questions about his well-being and Leo – well, Leo looks equally surprised and delighted. A soft smile settles on his lips as glee dances in his eyes, and Emma finds herself wondering if she got it all wrong with Melody. Because this – this is far more intimate, something perhaps she shouldn’t be allowed to witness.

She runs her fingers through Henry’s black hair once more, before she makes for standing up. Her ankle sends a jolt of electricity up her leg the moment it touches the ground, making her yelp and stumble. A hand comes to hold her elbow, and she looks up to meet familiar blue eyes.

She snatches her arm away.

“Don’t touch me.”

James looks pained for a moment, guilt in his eyes. She wants to snap at him, tell him that, yes, indeed, this is all his fault. It would be petty and immature, but her ankle hurts too badly for rational thoughts at the moment. Not to mention she’s still angry at him for following Leo down the mine and putting them in this situation to begin with. He deserves more than just snappy words, truth be told.

She doesn’t have time to give him a piece of her mind, though, because Henry puts himself between her and James, arms folded on his chest, with all the confidence a child can muster. “Don’t touch my mom,” he echoes her words.

James looks down at him, baffled, before he glances at Emma, then back to Henry. His surprise turns into something else, with a frown, though Emma cannot read the expression in his eyes, the feelings on his features. He shakes his head, as if chasing his thoughts away, before he looks back at her. His hand raises to scratch his neck, and she hates him so much.

“Apologies, love.”

And then he’s gone, leaving Emma to frown at the empty space where he was standing only moments before. Henry pats her hip, proud, and she snorts a little. Thankfully for her, Graham finally shows up, and lets her lean against him as he helps her hop toward the ambulance. The medics are on her immediately, checking her pulse and prodding her ankle, her leg. Leo is soon to follow her inside the ambulance, his hand in Henry’s.

The drive to the hospital happens in silence.

 

…

 

Doctor Whale insists on an x-ray of her foot, just in case it happens to be broken, but it turns out to be a bad sprain instead. They still wrap her foot in a cast, though, so it will heal nicely and so she doesn’t put her weight on it, and Emma only huffs and puffs mildly. She rolls her eyes at Leo bringing her a cup of jello when she’s waiting for Whale’s signature so she can leave the hospital and go back home.

Mary Margaret is nowhere to be seen, even if she followed them to the hospital. She must be creeping on David Nolan again, not that Emma can blame her – she doesn’t approve, but she understands. Especially since he hasn’t regained his memories yet, and seems quite fond of the petite teacher now. This is why divorces exist, after all, isn’t it?

Graham appears just when Whale tells her she can go home, and he fusses around for long minutes before Emma tells him she’s _fine, thank you very much, dad_. He looks at her like she just insulted five generations of his family.

“How old do you think I am?”

“Old enough not to freak out about a sprain ankle.”

It makes him smile. Making Graham smile is so easy, and Emma likes it. His face goes all soft and warm, and it’s such a shame that he indeed is old enough to be her father. “Ungrateful brat,” he calls her, but it sounds fond.

She likes him a lot.

In the end, Mary Margaret sheepishly asks Emma if it’s okay for her to stay behind, and Emma rolls her eyes before she asks Graham to drive them home. His car smells like leather and the forest, the radio playing old rock songs, and he waits until they close the front door behind them to drive away. Emma smiles to herself as she hops her way to the couch and lets herself fall on it.

“What a day,” Leo states as he sits next to her. Henry stomps his way upstairs, no doubt to grab his Nintendo DS.

“I’m still mad at you,” Emma replies, not looking at him. “But I’m too tired for a lecture.”

“I know.” They’re both silent for a moment, before he adds, “I just wanted to be right.”

She turns her head, raises an eyebrow in a silent question.

Leo sighs. “I wanted to find some pixie dust in the mines. Just to prove it to you that this is all real. Ki–James agreed to come with me, because he knows the mines. I thought – I thought if he found the dust, it would break his curse, and he would remember and… I was wrong.”

“You were reckless,” she corrects.

“That too.”

“I’m still mad,” she adds flatly, and he snorts. “But I’m glad you’re okay now.”

He hesitates, before he slowly shifts on the couch so he can put his head on her shoulder. Emma tilts her head until it rests against his, and closes her eyes. She sighs loudly, still groggy from the painkillers the nurse gave her.

“Who was the boy?”

Leo tenses against her, and stays silent for long seconds. Then, tentatively, “His name is Gideon. His real name.” And then, in a broken whisper, “He doesn’t remember me.”

Emma squeezes his knee, presses her cheek against his head. She doesn’t know how to comfort him, doesn’t know what to say. She mules over her words for a moment, before she replies, “He doesn’t need memories to care about you.”

Leo doesn’t say anything at first, and for a moment Emma thinks this is the end of their discussion. Or perhaps even that he fell asleep right there, on her shoulder. But then he says, “You’re no longer denying my story.”

Emma opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. He is right – she could have easily called his lie once more, remind him that this is all in his head. But she didn’t. She hasn’t done it lately, not since David Nolan, not since – everything.

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” she admits.

“Good,” he replies, his voice sleepy but determined. “It means you’re starting to believe.”

Emma wouldn’t go that far, but.

But…

She closes her eyes, a sigh slowly escaping her lips. She feels sleepy too now, the adrenaline no longer keeping her going and the exhaustion settling deep in her bones. She could sleep for three days straight, probably, and still be tired after waking up.

“Graham is Mama’s huntsman, by the way.”

Emma lets out a noise, half snort and half chuckle, and shakes her head. “Of course he is,” she states, no longer fighting Leo. “What about Gideon?”

“Belle’s son.”

“Beauty and the Beast? God, you’re into nerds, aren’t you?”

Leo kicks her shin, the good one, but it doesn’t hurt. “Looks who’s talking.”

She’s too exhausted to ask him what it is supposed to mean.

Some answers she isn’t ready for quite yet.


	10. chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's bACK BITCHES

Emma spends the following two weeks with her ankle in a cast, unable to move away from the station. She gets some paperwork done, answers the phone, sorts the archives, and is otherwise so bored out of her mind that Graham makes fun of her at least five times a day for it. They’ve taken to playing darts together, Emma leaning against a desk as she lines a shot – she’s terrible at it, and Graham is way too good, but it keeps them busy and entertained.

She falls into the routine nicely enough, taking care of breakfast before Mary Margaret drives both Henry and Leo to school, coming back home at five just in time to check on their homework. They eat and watch tv, before she gives Henry his bath and reads him a bedtime story. Rinse and repeat every day, with visits to Granny’s in the weekend and hours spent at the park. Leo has taken to teaching Henry how to play soccer, and soon half a dozen other kids are playing with them too. Leo has never looked more happy, like he lives off the social interactions – or perhaps because his not-boyfriend is always sitting on a bench, pretending to read while he sneaks glances Leo’s way.

By the time the third week rolls around, Dr Whale still refuses to take Emma’s cast off, but discharges David Nolan. His wife decides to throw a party to celebrate, and both Emma and Mary Margaret are invited. (“You saved his life! Of course you’re invited!”)

Emma wonders how much longer she can go along with Mary Margaret’s kicked puppy attitude. Surely it must not be healthy for her, all the pining and sad faces, but Emma has no idea what to do or say to comfort her flatmate and convince her to move on from her unrequited crush.

Instead, she buys a nice bottle of wine at the liquor store, asks Leo to put on his best shirt, and drives them all to the Nolans’ for an evening of awkwardness. Dr Whale is here, smiling at Emma, then her foot, then Emma again – and with him all the town it seems. Emma only recognises a handful of them, and can put names on even less faces than that, so she sits on the bench by the stairs and makes herself as small as possible while Leo goes hunting for drinks and food. He has no problem navigating the crowd, saluting this and that person as he makes his way toward the buffet, Henry happily trailing behind him.

Emma smirks a little at the two of them, before she focuses back on her phone. Graham and she has been stuck in a passionate game of Words With Friends for a week now, with Emma putting as many dirty words as possible just so he will use his ‘oh youth’ voice on her while he rolls his eyes.

“So you must be Emma.”

She’s startled away from placing ‘nookie’ (10 points, not bad) and raises her head to find David Nolan standing in front of her, in all his nice-guy-smile-and-flannel-shirt glory. She makes for standing up, falling back on her ass ungracefully when she puts too much weight on one foot and loses her balance.

“Yeah, hi. I would stand up, but…”

“Don’t worry, stay there.” He grins at her, charming as always – not that she knows, but Mary Margaret has been talking about him a lot, so Emma feels like she kinda knows anyway. “I wanted to thank you for the rescue, but it looks like you’re making a habit of it.”

Emma finds herself blushing under the man’s praises – a little voice whispers to her, ‘under your father’s praise,’ and she isn’t quick enough to shut it up. The idea is already making its way into her heart, which beats a little faster at the thought. Wouldn’t it be nice?

She forces herself to chase it all away.

“I hope not to make a habit of it, actually,” she grins back. “You’re welcome.”

David keeps smiling, swaying on his feet a little, before he moves closer and leans forward, as if sharing a secret with her. “This is a crowd of unfamiliar faces, and you’re the only one I’m sure I don’t actually know.”

Emma’s eyes widen a little at his confession, her own fears rising as a knot in her throat. She swallows it down with difficulty, willing herself to forget about how every face was a foreign one until Ingrid, and Henry. About how she could have walked past someone she knew on the street, and wouldn’t have even reacted, wouldn’t even be aware of the fact. Dr Whale said that David’s amnesia was more due to the shock than anything else, and that his memories will come back eventually, and he just has to let his brain rest a little.

Emma wishes she was that lucky.

“I know exactly what you mean,” she admits. He offers her a questioning raised eyebrow, and she nods to the spot beside her on the bench. He sits by her side, and waits. “I have no memory of my life before I was seventeen. The doctors have no idea why, it’s just… gone.”

David’s smile is gone all of a sudden, his eyes full of compassion. Only he could understand, she thinks, but then again nobody will ever understand. Emma doesn’t even know why she’s telling him all that, even with Leo’s voice in her head whispering to her that David is their father and will make all her worries and pain go away ** _._**

“At least you have your brother.”

“At least you have your wife,” Emma hears herself shooting back, bitterly.

David’s scoff is rolling on his tongue, ready to come out, before he swallows it down quickly. Emma doesn’t comment, her own lips in a tight line. She wants to tell him not to fuck around, that she cares very dearly about Mary Margaret and could he not play with her heart if he doesn’t mean it. But it’s not her place, and so she just shakes her head a little before she focuses back on the crowd in the living room.

“I care about her a lot,” David goes on after one too many silent beat. Emma doesn’t have to ask who _her_ is. “But this is a difficult situation and…”

“None of my business?” she finishes for him, offering him an out that he doesn’t take.

“She’s your roommate; you’re worried.” Another beat then, “I’m trying to do right by her. By both of them.”

 _Then try harder_ , she wants to say, but someone calls David’s name before she can speak up. They both raise their heads at the same time, only to find a Latina woman walking toward them with a grin on her lips. Her curly hair falls freely around her shoulders, her nose and cheeks peppered with freckles, and she looks overall so beautiful that it takes Emma a few seconds to recover.

“Whale says you probably don’t remember me,” is how she introduces herself, and Emma wonders if he gets that a lot, people who have known him for a while having to go through everything all over again. Sounds exhausting. “Arizona. Your boss.”

“Oh yeah,” he replies with a grin and a shake of the head, like he suddenly remembers her despite the fact that he very much doesn’t. Sounds exhausting too, this game of pretending not to offend people. “Sorry about missing work for so long.”

Arizona offers a flick of her wrist. “More puppies for me to pet, can’t say I mind.”

The dots connect in Emma’s mind at the mention of puppies, mostly because Mary Margaret has told her on several occasions about how great a man who works with pets must be. Because David worked at the animal shelter, before. Because Emma knows more about him that she would like.

“Looks like a meeting for Asocial Anonymous,” the woman goes on as she looks between David and Emma. “Mind if I join?”

Not that she lets them much of a choice, scooting between Emma and David on the bench before either of them has time to react, let alone answer anything. She introduces herself to Emma next, and only then does it click - Emma has seen her a couple of times at Granny’s during the weekend, bickering with Ruby about this or that thing. Graham told her a few days ago that she should get more familiar with the people of Storybrooke, now that she serves them, but it’s a long, tedious process.

Arizona then starts a conversation with David about the animal shelter, explaining what they have been up to lately and which animals they’re taking care of at the moment, so Emma stops listening at some point. She looks back to the party in front of her, wondering if people would mind her slipping away only half an hour after she arrived, when she notices Leo in a corner. Arms folded on his chest, he’s glaring at something (someone?) she can’t see and looking more pissed than he’s even been.

Neither David nor Arizona mind that she excuses herself and walks away, stopping by Leo’s side. She scans the room for Henry, finds him eating cheese cubes on the couch, and deems him safe enough for her to focus back on her brother instead.

“What’s up?” she asks, way too cheerfully to simply be checking in with him.

Leo, thankfully, is no fool and doesn’t make it difficult for his sister. “She’s plotting something.”

Emma follows his line of sight to the open kitchen, to find David Nolan’s wife discussing with Madam Mayor while dropping finger food on a platter. Emma forces herself not to make a face at the sight of the Mayor, if only because she is in public and knows her manners. “So what? They’re friends.”

“No, they’re not. She has no friends.” Leo frowns some more, and Emma finds herself mirroring him. “Aunt Abigail would never be friends with her.”

“ _Aunt_ Abigail?”

Leo glances at her before he sighs. Emma knows him well enough by now to recognise it as a ‘oh right, you don’t remember’ sigh. She may remember what he told her about the woman, when she appeared at the hospital after David woke up from his coma, but she hadn’t realised that they were close enough to consider _their father’s almost-wife_ to be their aunt.

Putting all the pieces together proves itself complicated. Gosh, she’ll need a diagram for that family tree, or something.

“Anyway, yeah. Don’t you find it weird that Prince Charming suddenly wakes up from a coma, and then the Evil Queen is all friendly with his fake wife?”

“There are a lot of things about all of this I find weird, little brother…”

Leo offers her his most unimpressed stare, to which Emma replies with a little smirk. While she doesn’t mind his fantasies, it is always good to remind him that she still doesn’t believe them, lest he gets too carried away and starts actually doing something crazy. Like asking her to bite into an apple just to prove a theory, or something.

“Listen, I hate the woman as much as you do, but it doesn’t mean she isn’t allowed to have friends.”

“She’s plotting something,” Leo reitters.

“Well good thing I’m the police then. If something happens, I’ll take care of it.”

Leo seems to be hesitating then, his eyes traveling between Emma and the scene unfolding in the kitchen, before he gives up with a deep sigh. Emma may have won this battle, but it doesn’t mean she’s won the war, and she knows to keep an eye on him from now on. The last thing she wants is to have a Mine Accident 2.0 on her arms in a couple of days because her brother is too reckless for his own good.

“Can we go home now?” he asks in a mumble, teenage angst kicking back in.

“Sure thing,” Emma replies, too happy to get away from here to complain about her brother’s sudden sour mood. She calls for Henry, who perks up at the sound of his name and comes trotting toward her instantly. It’s another five minutes before they manage to say their goodbyes to David, now deep in a discussion with Arizona and another man, and then the three of them leave the house without looking back. Emma wonders if it’s rude to go without thanking Mrs Nolan for welcoming them, but then again it would put them in the Mayor’s crossfire. The least she sees them, the better.

Leo is still sulking by the time they make it home, so Emma gives him some space.

 

…

 

_“I need your counsel.”_

_Emma forces herself not to drop into the heavy chair, instead lifting her skirts to sit as properly as possible. In part because Queen Abigail has always been strict about manners, and in part because it is an important matter on which she wants to be taken seriously. The older woman looks up from the missive she was reading, and must notice the grave air on Emma’s features, for she puts the letter aside and folds her arms on the table._

_“What is troubling you, my darling?”_

_She bites on her lip, pondering on her words. Even though she rehearsed her speech only minutes before entering the royal office, her stomach is in_ _knots_ _and she suddenly can’t remember what she was supposed to say. She isn’t afraid that Queen Abigail will judge or mock her, for she has known her since she was a babe and trusts her with her life as well as her heart, but her confession is one that is not easy to make._

_“When you were betrothed to papa,” she starts, and those words almost have Queen Abigail pinching her lips. They never truly discussed it, but Prince David told his children many a time before of the tales that had led him to Snow White, of the sacrifice he and Queen Abigail were ready to make for their kingdoms, before they both decided to follow their heart. “You did it on your own free will, even though you loved another man.”_

_Queen Abigail frowns, just enough to create two wrinkles between her eyes. “Where are you getting at with this, Emma?”_

_Emma frowns too as she looks down to her hands in her lap, fingers playing nervously, before she takes a deep breath. “What I mean is, how were you able to put your own happiness aside for the good of your kingdom?”_

_“Ah.” Queen Abigail doesn’t say anything else after that, an uncomfortable silence stretching between them until Emma glances up, only to see the older woman holding back a smile, her chin resting in her hands. A quiet snort of laughter escapes her when her eyes meet Emma’s, and the princess tries her hardest not to be offended, but finds herself failing._

_“Are you mocking my pain?”_

_The queen does laugh this time, smothering the sound behind her hand and shaking her head slightly. “Oh, of course not, my darling. I simply believe you are making a mountain out of a molehill. Now, tell me what is this happiness you want to renounce.”_

_Emma finds herself opening her mouth wordlessly, before her cheeks_ _heat_ _up. She tilts her head as to hide her face behind her hair, which does nothing to quiet the queen’s little puffs of laughter. “There is a man…”_

_“So I’ve heard.”_

_She looks up, mouth and eyes widening. “You_ know _?”_

 _Queen Abigail does laugh out loud this time, but she also stands up to walk around her desk and_ _stops_ _next to Emma. Her hand finds Emma’s shoulder, squeezing it, before it goes up to cup her face and angle_ **it** _so she is staring up at the queen.  “I am afraid a lot of us are indeed aware of Lieutenant Jones, my darling.”_

_Emma didn’t think she could blush even more, but her skin feels as if it is about to combust, and she wants to dig herself a hole into which she will disappear. Queen Abigail must take pity on her, though, for she smiles kindly and caresses her cheek._

_“Oh my child, did you really believe you had to give up on him for the good of your queendom, when it was your mother introducing you to him?”_

_Emma blinks, once, twice, before it dawns on her. “The meeting was on purpose.” It is less of a question than a fact, now that she thinks back on it, now that Queen Abigail’s words put everything from the past few weeks into perspective._

_“That it was. Now, do not find underlying meanings to my words, for I never said your mother planned everything. But if she did not approve of the idea, never would have she introduced you to a bachelor.”_

_Emma purses her lips, thinking. “Is he a good prospect?”_

_“Does it matter?”_

_The words resonate with her, of course. Her parents would never force her into a marriage of convenience, neither would they go again her heart’s will. But a maiden’s mind can play tricks on her at times, and she found herself worried for days, wondering if her attraction for the young lieutenant was mutual, and if her parents would approve of him._

_“He is from a good family, is rising through the Navy and, from what I have heard, his wit is as delightful as his face.” Emma laughs at the words, and blushes once more. “Believe me, your parents would approve of him, regardless of their will to let you choose your own happy ending.”_

_The knot that was bothering Emma’s stomach has now traveled to her throat, and she finds herself swallowing around it, and the tears at the back of her eyes. She hadn’t thought of it that way but, the more she ponders on it now, the more sense it makes. She understands the secret smiles her mother shared with Lady Jones, now that she has acquired a new perspective on the subject._

_“Worry not, my darling. Your father may huff and puff all he wants - and he will - but at the end of the day they will always embrace whatever makes your brother and you happy.”_

_The smile on Emma’s lips feels more genuine now that her spirits are lifted, and she even allows herself to grin at the queen. Queen Abigail smiles back, and caresses her hair, apparently satisfied with ending the conversation on such a high note for she goes back to sitting at her end of the desk._

_“Now, my darling. Would you like to talk about how to best separate your royal duties from your personal life?”_

_Emma chokes on her own saliva at the implications, and hides behind her hair once more, before she softly answers, “I would love that, yes.”_

****

…

 

It is yet another week before Dr Whale agrees to take Emma’s cast off, much to her relief. She leaves the hospital with empty promises of being careful and not putting too much pressure on her foot, too happy about her newfound freedom to be contradictory. It feels weird, no longer walking with a limp, but Emma makes the best of it and walks all the way from Granny’s to the station on the following morning, just because she can. The weather is starting to really get colder now that winter is just around the corner, and she had to swap her leather jacket for something a little more padded.

Mary Margaret told her that winters in Storybrooke are usually wet, and then you wake up one morning and find ten inches of snow in your garden. Emma looks forward to the latter, if not the former - Henry will be delighted to be able to play in the snow instead of jumping in the slush like in Boston.

The warmth of the heating system bites into Emma’s cheek as she enters the station, a sharp contrast with the wind, and she smiles a little as she gets rid of her scarf. Her joy is short-lived, though, when she steps into the main room to find one of the cells occupied. She sighs as she shrugs off her coat and walks toward her desk.

“You should get our loyalty card. Ten stamps and you get a free arrest.”

James snorts loudly, standing up from where he was lying down on the cot to lean against the cell, his arms dangling between the bars. There is a bruise blossoming under his right eye and, along with the fact that he looks like a mess and obviously spent the night in, it takes Emma about five seconds to conclude he got into yet another fight at the Rabbit Hole. How the place doesn’t go out of business with how many pieces of furniture get broken during the weekly melees, Emma has no idea. Nor does she care all that much, truth be told.

“Would it help to say I’m innocent?”

It is Emma’s time to scoff, her laugh as loud as it is sarcastic, as she sits down at her desk and switches on her computer. It starts purring like a very upset cat, and she glares at it. “Not really, no.”

“It’s quite the story.”

“Wow. I don’t care.”

James chuckles once more. Emma doesn’t look up, but the creaking noise is all she needs to know he’s back to lying down on the uncomfortable cot. She is used to his shenanigans by now - either she or Graham arrest him once a week, sometimes twice if James is in a particularly festive mood - and to keeping him locked all through the morning. Maybe it will stick, at some point, and he will stop getting into trouble. Not yet, though.

“Can I get a cup of water?”

Emma doesn’t look up from her screen when she points to the break room to her left. “Just go and help yourself,” she says with a shit-eating grin.

“Ah-ah, very funny,” he deadpans, which makes her laugh. It’s all about the little things in life. “I’m pretty sure that’s borderline police brutality. Wouldn’t want to get into trouble for my dry throat now, would you, lass?”

She raises an unimpressed eyebrow, but doesn’t look up from her emails. Graham will show up soon with breakfast from Granny’s for all of them, James included, and he’s more than aware of that. It’s the Sheraton of police cells, when he’s in it, so he has no right to complain about being treated wrong.

She scans through her emails, grateful for the silence that always accompanies James’ sulking - half of her messages is either Graham or Leo sending her spam in the form of funny videos and cute pictures of kittens, and the other half usually is people contacting the station about minor problems they could resolve by themselves easily. One of them, though, makes her frown.

“Why are _the nuns_ contacting me to say they’re not pressing charges against you?” She looks up at him, and he sits up in his cot, looking sheepish for the first time since she met him. “Did you break into the convent? What is wrong with you?”

He hesitates, just for a moment, before a smirk stretches his lips. “Let’s say one of them used God’s name in all the wrong ways last night.”

Emma struggles to swallow down her disgust, but it shows on her face and makes him laugh. It takes her longer than should be necessary to understand he’s only making fun of her, and then she wants to punch him all over again. The asshole.

“I hate you.”

“I know!” he answers with a gleeful giggle. “Bloody hell, that was too easy.”

For a moment, Emma pictures herself pouring him the damn glass of water, if only to throw it at **_his_** face. But she quite likes the idea of a stable job with a good pay, so she forces herself to remain professional in the face of stupidity. She can’t give up on saving for Henry’s college fees because of a moron with a penchant for crude humour.

She puts Mother Superior’s email aside, electing to let Graham deal with it on his own, and keeps going through the other messages. A bunch of them are about the Miner’s Day Festival, one or two from elders complaining about a birthday party being a little too loud (Emma rolls her eyes), another from a mother scandalised by how short the uniform skirts at Granny’s are. This one gets a silent chuckle out of Emma, and she forwards it to Ruby for the hell of it.

She’s thinking on how best to tell Leroy to piss off about his complain of the day, when her police station roommate decides to interrupt her. “I kicked some homophobes’ arse.” She looks up from her computer screen, and waits for the rest of the story. She didn’t expect that at all. “Your brother’s boyfriend was at the bar, and they decided to take the mick about… You know. Poor Fabian doesn’t look like much as it is, and they were twice his size. Nobody else was doing anything, because that’s Storybrooke for you, so I stepped in. Took a swing. All hell broke loose. Got kicked out for starting shit, and they somehow managed to make it look like I was the asshole in the story. Graham showed up and _tada_.”

He stretches one hand to encompass his cell, a sad smile on his lips. Emma joins the missing dots on her own - Fabian (Gideon?) is a ward of the state, and lives with the nuns for some reason she still doesn’t understand. Leo had talked about meeting him at the Rabbit Hole, just for a drink, but he had a maths test today and Emma isn’t too fond of letting him go out on a school night. Which explains why the other boy was alone, and why Mother Superior was the one contacting her. Surely Fabian told her everything as soon as he made it back to the convent.

“That was… chivalrous of you.”

“Chivalrous is my middle name,” he replies, which makes her snort. “I may be an asshole, but I won’t ignore bigotry.”

“Still an asshole, though.”

She grins, and he replies with a smile of his own, a little crooked and more sincere than any of their interactions before that. Her eyes linger on his face for longer than is truly necessary as she tries to associate this piece of information with everything she already knows about him, and so she gets startled by her phone ringing.

She lets out a breath, willing her heart to stop racing, as she picks up Mary Margaret’s call, if only to be welcomed by her roommate’s frantic voice. “Emma? _Emma_! Emma, it’s - there was - it’s an emergency!”

“Okay, calm down.” She leans back against her chair and closes her eyes at the dread rising in her throat. “What happened?”

She can hear the other woman breathing loudly in the phone, before she manages to find her wits again. “It’s Graham. He just showed up at our door ten minutes ago and I - I think he was drunk, or something. He asked for you, and then he passed out. Leo and I managed to pull him to the couch, but he’s burning up and he still hasn’t moved. I’m really afraid he’s going to… Should I call 911?”

Emma is already on her feet, grabbing her keys and her jacket, when Leo snatches the phone away from Mary Margaret to talk to her. “Don’t call 911. It’s not - Emma, it’s not normal. I think it’s magic.”

“Leo, now is not the time.”

“Trust me. Just this once, _please, trust me_.”

The pleading, panicky edge to his voice is what does it for Emma. She has never heard him so upset before, on the verge of tearing up, so she knows he is not playing around. Whatever he believes is happening, he believes it hard enough to make it the truth in his eyes.

“Okay, I’m coming. On my way. Just - keep him warm, lots of blankets, maybe you’ll break his fever before I arrive.”

“Okay - yeah, okay, we can do that. Please, be quick.”

“Promise.” She terminates the call and puts her phone in her pocket, looking up to find James standing up once more and looking at her with wide eyes. It only takes her half a second before she makes her decision. “You know anything about first aid?”

“The basics.”

She throws him the keys to the station, glad when they don’t collide with the bars and he catches them instead. “Good. You’re coming.”

Emma doesn’t look back as he struggles with finding the right one and opening the cell, nor when he jogs to follow her out of the station. It is only once they are outside and walking toward her car that he finally asks, “What is going on?”

“I have no idea.”

And perhaps it’s the worst part.


	11. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... are we planning a funeral?

The blood rushes to her ears before she even makes it to Main Street, thumping loudly to the rhythm of her heart. She grits her teeth and forces herself not to step on the gas, because the last thing she needs is for the Deputy to get into a car accident when the Sheriff is in danger. Still, her knuckles are white around the wheel and James switches off the radio - some cheery pop song she doesn’t recognise – after taking just one glance at her face. Emma isn’t sure if she should be grateful for it or not.

It takes about five minutes before Emma does the worst parking job of her life in front of the house, opening and slamming the door before she jogs to the front door. She is welcomed by Leo and Henry’s anguished faces, her stomach turning into knots before she even makes it to the living room.

Mary Margaret is kneeling in front of Graham, a wet cloth to his forehead. They have wrapped him in the ugly patchwork quilt, only his face uncovered and lying on a pillow. The pallor of his face clashes with the chestnut brown of his hair, a coat of sweat glistening on his skin. A pained moan gets stuck in the back of Emma’s throat at the sight of him, and she falls to her knees by Mary Margaret’s side, her fingers trembling when they ghost against his temple. He’s still burning up, and shivering a little, and she feels out of her depth. She has never seen a dead body before, never seen someone dying, but still she wonders if this is what it looks like. If Graham’s life is hanging on a threat, if there is anything to be done against the Fates’ work.

“Is he gonna be okay?”

She looks up to Henry, speechless. His bottom lip is quivering, his eyes getting wet, and Emma really doesn’t want to lie to him, but she also really doesn’t want to give false promises. Brunt honestly will have to do, then. “I don’t know, darling. But we’ll do our best to help him, okay?” Emma makes the split decision before Henry even has time to nod. “Hey, how about you show James how to play Mario Kart, huh?”

Henry starts complaining straight away, and James bristles in the corner of her eye. Not that Emma cares about what either of them want in that moment.

“It wasn't a question,” she tells Henry in her Mom Voice, and he thankfully knows better than to contradict her. Instead, he glances James’ way before leaving the room and stomping his way up the stairs, the man having no other choice but to follow the boy. Not without one last anguished look Graham’s way, reminding Emma that she isn't alone in caring about the sheriff.

“Okay,” she breathes, and rocks on her heels a little. Her fingers shiver slightly when they rise to brush strands of hair away from Graham’s face. He sighs at the touch, his skin hot under the cold of her hand, a moan of pain stuck at the back of his throat. “Okay,” she says again, to brace herself more than anything else. “We need the fever to drop, first of all. Mary Margaret, help me strip him down.”

The school teacher thankfully doesn't hesitate and gets to work immediately, helping Emma move Graham into a sitting position before unbuttoning his best, then his shirt. His chest is burning up, his skin a worrying shade of pink, but Emma wills herself not to focus on it too much as she goes through one layer of clothes at a time.

It is only after they manage to strip him off his undershirt that both women gasp, loud in the silence of the house. For a scar mares Graham’s chest, white and ugly, the size of a fist just above where his heart rests. Emma has never seen anything of the like - not with today’s medical progresses, not when doctors make such a good job at plastic surgery.

“That's when she took his heart,” Leo explains softly, and Emma doesn't ask who he's talking about. She doesn't need to.

 

…

 

 _People talk of the adrenaline of battle, fire surging through your veins and ringing to your ears, keeping you up, keeping you going, keeping you fighting. People talk of the euphoria of battle, of men and horses restless both before the first assault, of men still fighting despite mortal wounds. People say it is a drug of its own, more latent_ _than_ _pixie dust, more powerful_ _than_ _poppy seeds._

_People never tell you what happens after. When the strength rushes away from your body, leaving you boneless, brainless. They never tell you how you will fall to your knees with no will to ever stand up again, not even to celebrate victory._

_Snow takes no pleasure in winning the war, in defeating Regina. Her fingers dig into the soft, muddy ground, her lungs fill with smoke and the smell of burnt bodies, her ears still ringing from the cries and screams. She barely notices Regina being taken prisoner, David to one side and Marian to the other, barely even cares about the shackles around her stepmother’s wrists, blocking her magic away as she's led to her cage. She will rot in a dungeon while Snow sits on her throne once more, the true queen rising once more, but Snow is tired and her skin smells of war and death and her hair is coated with blood and she knows why nobody ever_ _talks_ _about the after._

 _“Assess the enemies,” she tells Lancelot. “Shackle those who will_ _bend_ _the knee. Kill the others.”_

_Surprise flashes through Lancelot’s eyes at Snow’s lack of mercy, but he doesn't go against her words. Instead, he calls after a few of his men and starts walking around the battlefield, starts looking for survivors. How many, Snow wonders. How many died for Regina, because of her?_

_Someone calls her name, and Snow raises her head just in time to witness Red turning back from wolf into human. Dorothy was the one to call after her, arms full of heavy red fabric Snow knows too well, even though she never would have thought she would ever see it again. Her mother’s cloak. The royal cloak. Dorothy smiles at her when Red holds one arm for her to take, pulling her up._

_“It is time,” her best friend says._

_It is as if the entire queendom holds its breath as Snow White rises and takes the first step toward the castle. Soldiers and healers alike turn to look at her as, one step at a time, she makes her way toward the high entrance gates. Her heart beats faster when she looks up, even if her mother’s colours haven't_ _flown_ _over the castle for the past decade. But she still remembers the flag high in the sky and the banners hanging from the walls, and memories will have to do for now. Soon, so soon, Snow will make memories of her own._

_Where the battlefield was a mess of soldiers and wounds and blood, the entrance hall is eerily silent but for the sound of her boots on marble and her puffs of breath, shallow to her own ears._

_She stops in front of the throne, long enough for Dorothy to drape the cloak over her shoulders and clasp it at her neck. She misses the royal sceptre but the sword is still heavy at her hip, and that will have to do._

_She wonders if she should wait for David for this moment, and her second of hesitation is enough to have Red stop her with a hand on her forearm and her nostrils flaring. They have all aged so much in the previous year, but never has it been more obvious on the teenage werewolf’s features – gone is the round face of childhood and the dreamy look in her eyes.  Red has grown out of the wolf pup in the middle of a war, and Snow is only now noticing._

_The she-wolf’s eyes meet hers, and she frowns slightly. “Someone’s here,” is all she says at first. Soldiers have scouted the castle already, looking for guards and prisoners alike, and declared it empty of any living soul. For Red to find out a lone survivor barely comes as a surprise, even an_ _unwelcome_ _one._

_“Where?”_

_Red doesn’t need more to make her way toward a case of stairs, then another, going down the kitchens then down the dungeons, down down down until Dorothy lights up a torch for them and Snow wrinkles her nose at the putrid smell of urine and death. She could have done without visiting Regina’s torture chambers._

_Light and shadows are cast along a row of empty cells, dancing in the firelight, until a low groan has all three women sharing a glance before they_ _make_ _their way down the corridor. There, finally, in the last cell, Snow finds a body. Alive, thank the gods, a sigh of relief escaping her. The noise turns into a gasp when Dorothy comes to stand behind her and the torch casts its light on the man’s face. Even bruised and battered, Snow would recognise this face for it is one she knows well, one that belongs to a man who sealed her fate._

_“Huntsman,” she breathes out as she drops to her knees in front of the bars._

_He raises his eyes to her, something akin to recognition flashing in the grey of his irises before a pained smile curls his lips. “Your Highness,” is all he says at first, ignoring the way Red claws her way through the lock of his cell, ignoring everything but Snow’s face only a few inches from his. She doesn’t want to know what happened to him, what she did to him. She doesn’t want to know, and yet Snow knows she will have to face the truth soon enough._

_Red helps him to his feet, struggling slightly under the dead weight until Dorothy comes to help her out. Both women do an effective_ _job of walking him outside of the cell, and they would have continued that way down the corridor and up the stairs, if it weren’t for the Huntsman’s whimper of complain._

 _“My heart…” he_ _breathes_ _out. “She took my heart.”_

 _Snow’s own heart sinks in her stomach, knowing perfectly well he doesn’t talk in metaphors. The rumours have always been true – Regina crushing hearts, when she simply didn’t collect them to create an army of puppets to use whenever she wishes. For her to take the Huntsman’s heart after he failed in his mission would make sense, as sickening as the thought is -- either that or death, and Regina has always delighted in the idea_ _of a slow vengeance._

_Snow stares at Red, panic in her eyes, and the werewolf replies in kind – she seems out of breath for a moment, before her ears perk up and she focuses on the world outside of the dungeons. It takes long, interminable seconds, before she says, “I can hear them… Faintly, but they’re in the castle.”_

_Bile comes up Snow’s throat at Red’s use of the plural. So many hearts out of their chests, so many lives ruined by the Evil Queen. How they will give them all back to their owners, Snow has no idea, but they will make do. As they always seem to do, when it comes to righting all of Regina’s wrongs._

_“Show the way,” she tells Red, taking her place at the Huntsman’s side and throwing his arm around her shoulders. A grunt escapes her as he weighs down on her back, but Snow ignores it as she helps Dorothy hold the man out of the dungeons and back upstairs. It is a low process, Red long gone in front of them before she comes back to make sure they are all right. She nods at Snow, a silent confirmation that she found Regina’s trophies, before she shows them to the room._

_Her mother’s cabinet._

_Of course._

_“I hate her,” Snow sighs as she lowers the Huntsman into a chair. By her side, Dorothy stretches her back, purposefully not looking at the rows of pulsing red on the shelves. One after the other, dozens of boxes with beating hearts in them, their low drumming giving Snow nausea. She fights against the wave of uneasiness as she turns back toward the Huntsman. He looks so pale in the light of day, his cheeks emaciated, his hair a mess of dull locks, and she wonders when was the last time he was outside of that cell. “Which is yours?” she asks him softly, afraid to startle him._

_Even then, his eyes are wide when he looks back at her, and Snow remembers how skittish he was around her all those years ago, unable to look her in the eyes and stuttering on his words. The knowledge that he was sent to kill her hadn’t worked around the fact that Snow had found him oddly charming, naive teenager that she was._

_“To the left,” he tells her in a broken whisper, his hand trembling as he raises it to point at a row on the shelf._

_It takes a few moments of trial and error, Red pointing at this or that box until the Huntsman nods his approval, and then Snow is delicately taking the box and walking back to him. The heart is a beautiful thing, not one speck of black ruining the crimson, and she gasps a little at its beating when she grabs it between her hands. It is a human life she is holding, cradling to her chest, the enormity of it taking her breath away. A human life, so fragile and precious._

_“I’ve never done_ _this_ _before,” she confesses to him._

_He somewhat manages a smile that, despite its weakness, wants itself reassuring. “Worry not, Your Highness. It cannot be worse than taking it.”_

_He opens his shirt with feeble fingers, having Snow gasp once more at the large scar where his heart should be. Taking a heart usually doesn’t leave a mark, and it is a testament to Regina’s heartless fury that she would purposefully mark the Huntsman while taking his heart and will._

_Snow hesitates, just for a moment, before she all but shoves the heart back into the Huntsman’s chest. He gasps so loudly it startles her, and for one excruciating second Snow fears she killed him, before his eyes open again, his entire body rising with the next breath he takes. His fingers graze the scar, no doubt to feel his own pulse, before a grin settles on his lips and in his eyes._

_“Thank you, Your Highness.”_

_“You saved my life, once. It was time I returned the favour.”_

…

 

Emma leans back on her heels for a moment, just long enough to pull her hair into a ponytail and assess the situation. Which. It’s not looking good, any way they look at it. Because something tells Emma that bringing Graham to the hospital would not help at all – she is familiar with spiking fevers, has gone through quite a few of them with Henry, but this doesn’t look like anything she’s ever seen before. She doesn’t want to entertain Leo’s fantasies but. But.

Mary Margaret comes back from the master bedroom with two more comforters, and Emma forces herself to stand up again so the two of them can wrap everything around Graham’s body. Trying to take care of his fever has proven itself unsuccessful so far, his forehead only slightly less hot than before, but at least he seems to be sleeping peacefully for now.

Emma takes a few steps back, pressing the palms of her hands against her eyes until she sees stars and feels dizzy. She blinks against the white spots before her eyes focus on Leo, sitting with his knees to his chest in a chair and staring at Graham with anguish. Emma finds herself lacking words of comfort, feeling as dejected as Leo looks, so she elects instead to move closer to him and to put a hand on his shoulder. He looks up at her, blond hair falling in front of his eyes and lips turned white from pressing them together too much. Not for the first time, Emma remembers that he’s only a teenager with too much weight on his shoulders.

“It’s going to be okay,” she tells him.

“You don’t know that,” he replies, making her sigh. Neither of them know that, neither of them know what to do – Mary Margaret puttering around in the kitchen as she makes some tea, not to feel too useless and to leave them just enough space. Emma makes a mental note of thanking her later, for that and for the day off school she is taking to help them.

Emma shoos Leo to the side, if only to squeeze herself between him and the chair’s arm. She pulls him into a hug, both of them staring at Graham’s sleeping form in front of them. One time, when Henry was three, he came down with a nasty cold after playing for hours in the snow. She had rushed to the ER in the middle of the night when he started having trouble breathing, and had spent too many hours biting her nails and sitting in a shitty plastic chair while waiting for someone, anyone, to fix her baby boy.

She feels equally as useless today, watching her boss and friend fight for his life with his cheeks a worrying shade of red and his skin glistening with sweat. She’d never planned on staying in Storybrooke for so long, let alone on getting attached to so many people, but here she is now. Caring. Worrying. Suffering.

“Tell me how to fix him,” she asks Leo in a broken whisper.

He tenses against her, but knows better than to question her motives or her beliefs. He heaves a sigh, his entire body moving with the rise of his chest. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Regina was the only one to take hearts. We’ve never seen this before. I don’t know…”

“It’s okay,” she comforts him, even if it’s anything but. If not even Leo has a magic solution to their problem, then where does that leave them? What is she supposed to do, she they call the Saviour, if she isn’t able to save Graham?

“It doesn’t make sense,” Leo goes on, rambling to himself more than anything else. “Mama gave him his heart back after the war… He shouldn’t be affected by the Evil Queen anyone. And even then – no magic. Can’t magically control people without magic. It’s impossible. It just…”

“Here,” Mary Margaret cuts him off as she hands two mugs to them. Hot cocoa for Emma, black tea for Leo, the usual. Emma smiles gratefully as she takes her drink, burning herself on the first sip even as she ponders Leo’s words. It stopped being jibberish a while ago, if only because he always makes a point of explaining everything there is to know about magic to her. Probably so she can’t point out the holes in his story. Or because he thinks this will trigger her memories.

“Wait a second,” she says slowly, as her brain works the details of her wayward thought. “You said time was frozen, and then it wasn’t.”

“Yeah, but…”

“How does that work? What happened for time to start ticking by again?”

“You happened.” Leo frowns, before his eyes widen a little. “You happened! You have magic! It must be you! But… this still doesn’t make sense. Why would…”

Emma straightens a little – the thing not made easy by the fact that they are still squeezed together on the tiny chair – and ignores Mary Margaret’s surprised look as she turns toward Leo a little more. “Okay. Let’s say I am the key to break your curse. Could spending time with me, you know, unlock something in him?”

Leo frowns a little bit more, before his mouth opens in shock, before a sound of disgust escapes him. He glares at Graham, then at Emma. “True Love. Ew, _gross_ , Emma!”

Emma finds herself at a loss for words, struggling to understand what her brother means by that, and by the grimace he’s still aiming at her. Surely he can’t be implying…? But the way his eyes travel toward Graham, then her, then Graham again and, more surprisingly, the stairs behind her, has Emma squirming a little. Because, yes, her brother definitely is implying that the _magic of True Love_ between her and Graham caused the sheriff’s sudden illness. She leans backward and away from him, until she has no other choice but to sit on the chair’s armrest.

“I’m not _in love_ with Graham,” she whispers angrily. “What the fuck, Leo?”

He doesn’t seem to believe her at first, sending her the kind of suspicious glance one can only associate with siblings calling you out, but Emma holds his gaze, chin up, until Leo finally agrees to read the truth in her eyes. He sighs, just a little, his shoulders sagging. “‘Kay, fine. Still.” He vaguely points at Graham, then at Mary Margaret where she stands in the kitchen, pretending not to be eavesdropping. “Maybe you care about each other enough…. Just, like, platonically. Like Mama, or Papa. Not all True Love is romantic. And anyway, you can’t be Graham’s True Love.”

“Because he already has one?” she guesses. She’s getting half-good at this game.

“Something like that, yeah.” And here it is again, the way his eyes flicker toward the stairs, even if Emma doesn’t know why. Leo does as Leo wants, after all.

“How's he holding up?” comes a voice behind her, and Emma glares at the smirk Leo sends her way, before turning around to face the newcomer.

James is standing between the living room and the hallway, like a vampire waiting to be invited in, worried eyes not leaving Graham. Emma sighs loudly. “We don't know.” And then, with an eye roll, “How's my son?”

That gets a reaction out of James, a half-smile tugging one corner of his mouth when he looks at her. “The lad accused me once again of hurting you in the mine and then was so stubborn about ignoring me he bore himself into falling back asleep.”

A little snort escapes Emma. Always count on Henry to hold his grudges – he takes from her alright in that department. She's about to answer something positively sarcastic when a low groan interrupts her, and then she's on her feet again long enough to fall to her knees in front of Graham. He moans her name, so low it barely sounds like anything at all.

“Shh, I'm here,” she whispers to him. His forehead is still burning up when she brushes a few stray strands of hair away from his eyes, his breaths laboured as they come out of his mouth. “You're going to be okay.”

He smiles at her words, but it looks like a grimace on his handsome features, and makes him look younger than he is. Emma is certain such a thought would please him beyond reason.

“We're going to fix you, you hear me? We need you. Who else is going to kick my ass at darts?”

His chuckle is half-hearted at best, but it's a start. At least until he frowns one more, a bead of sweat rolling down his eyebrow. “She'll kill you. If I don't. You need to. She'll do it again.”

“It's the fever speaking,” she tells him softly, even if her voice is more clipped. Emma doesn't need to glance at Leo to know what he's thinking. They both are. “Nothing is going to happen to me. Or to you.”

Her fingers trail down his temple, the way she found herself doing a hundred times when comforting Henry. Delicate caresses along Graham’s temple and cheek, down his jaw. She doesn't remember starting to sing but here she is, the lullaby soft on her tongue as it echoes in the silence of the house. Graham's frown isn't as deep anymore, and she would think him asleep again were it not for how he whispers her name every so often. Her free hand finds his on the couch, fingers linking until she holds on to him so tightly her knuckles turn white.

The melody is a little broken, the lyrics uneven on her tongue when a sob gets stuck at the back of her throat. A fat tear rolls down her cheek and dies at the corner of her mouth, hot and salty against her lips, but Emma doesn’t rise a hand to wipe it away. Instead she keeps brushing her fingers against Graham’s cheek, hoping the motions to be soothing enough.

He heaves a loud sigh, the blanket around his shoulders moving until it leaves his chest uncovered, his scar shining white against his burning skin. Emma makes for pulling the blanket back around his shoulders, her knuckles brushing against his chest in the process.

She startles at the warmth.

Her eyes widen – she can’t have seen sparkles, it must only be a trick of her mind – even as her hand brushes against Graham’s skin once more, almost of its own accord. She doesn’t imagine the warmth this time, doesn’t hallucinate the fact that it comes from _her_ as much as it comes from Graham’s burning body.

Nor does she imagine his sigh of relief.

Or how peaceful his features suddenly are.

His pulse is still strong against her fingertips, his breaths deep and even, so Emma’s panicking moment of ‘oh no he’s dead’ comes to a rest before it even has time to properly find its way to her mind. Instead she witnesses Graham’s temperature plummets out of nowhere, his skin back to its usual pallor after only a few moments, leaving only a pinkish hue to his cheeks.

Emma blinks, before she turns to stare at Leo. “What happened?”

He’s next to her in a heartbeat, kneeling on the floor by her side, a gasp escaping his lips. Her brother remains silent for a few moments before, slowly, as if searching for the truth in his own words, he replies, “I think... I think you saved him.”

Emma sits back on her heels, and breathes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relieved? Disappointed?
> 
> The good news is chapter 11 is half-written already and it's my favourite so far if I do say so myself. In which Emma finds herself alone with someone (at last?), gets upset about Leo, and meets an handsome stranger who has no business in town...


	12. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out to be waaaay more emotional for Leo and Dreaming Prince that I had anticipated so, if you like those two boys, be ready for the ride!

It takes an hour after that to convince both Leo and Mary Margaret that they can go to school without feeling bad about leaving Graham behind, waking Henry up and forcing him to go to school, and telling everyone that she will call them if something else happens. Which, Emma really wishes it won't. Exhaustion is seeping through her bones already, her eyes heavy with sleep and the need to take a nap, and all she wants is an empty house to herself and a nice, warm bath. It won't be for this morning, though, since she is the one on call, even more so now that Graham can't make it to the station.

Emma rubs a hand against her face as she glares at her reflection in the mirror, at the purple bags under her eyes. There is not enough coffee in the world to get her through the day.

She sighs and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, squaring her shoulders before she nods to herself and leaves the bathroom. A shadow in Henry’s bedroom catches her attention and, when she moves closer, she finds James there. He's looking at the posters Henry and Leo have put on the walls in the past weeks – Star Wars and Captain America and, more surprisingly, PAW Patrol – with too much concentration marring his brows for just a bunch of colourful pictures.

“I need to get you back to the station,” she tells him without preamble, startling him just so.

His eyes are wide when they find hers. “Are you leaving Graham here alone?”

She shakes her head, puts her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. “Ruby took some time off, she's coming to look after him.”

“I can look after him,” he replies in a heartbeat, indignant. “He's my friend too.”

“No offense but this is our house and we don't trust you.”

His nostrils flare as he takes a step toward her, in a way that is not entirely menacing but just enough to have Emma raise her chin and square her shoulders. He's slightly taller than she is, and it unnerves her. “Then tell me, _love_. Why did you even bring me here in the first place?”

“You could have been useful,” she finds herself replying with a would-be casual shrug. She hopes the lie passes as truth on her tongue, even if his eyes seem to read her like an open book.

“Bollocks.” Yet another step into her personal space, and Emma forces herself not to take a step back. Not to let him win. “You bring me into your home, you let me look after your son, so don't talk about trust like it was not easily given.”

“You could have been useful,” she says again, this time even less believable than the first. Truth is, Emma has no idea why bringing James with her seemed like a good idea a few hours ago. She could have left him in the cell for all she cared – he would have complained but that would have been the end of it. Instead, it was as if every cell in her body was screaming at her that she needed him by her side, even if Emma forces herself to swallow back the feeling. She doesn't need anyone to hold her hand, least of all a man who has been antagonising her since the moment they met. By all accounts he could have been more of a burden than anything else, but he didn't question her when she shoved Henry his way and out of the room. Didn't even complain about being made an improvised nanny. No, he took it all in stride, complied, and still wants to help. And something in Emma tells her she ought not to be surprised – it is who he is, loyal and helpful and comforting.

Emma's breath catches in her throat, just a little. Her tongue darts out to lick her bottom lip, fire in her veins when James’ eyes fall to her mouth and linger for longer than is necessary. She refuses to let him get under her skin, refuses to be one of those women who confuses hatred with sexual tension.

Except he takes another step closer, until she can feel his breath on her face, until she can see the small freckles on his nose, and Emma doesn't know what to think anymore. It doesn't help that he whispers, “Stop lying,” and that his voice gets low and gravelly, bringing a shiver down her spine. Emma likes to think herself level-headed, which makes her reaction all the more confusing. It isn't like her to be that affected by someone, let alone someone like James.

He looks down to her lips once more, and for a moment Emma can't choose between horror or trepidation at the thought that he might kiss her. For a moment, she can't ignore the pull of his body toward hers, can only wonder if his lips are as soft as they look, how his hair would feel between her fingers, what he looks like breathless and wanting.

His fingers brush against her wrist.

Her heartbeat spikes.

And someone knocks on the door.

Emma startles away from him with a small gasp, turning her head to avoid his eyes. Her cheeks are burning from shame at her own impulses, and she finds herself mumbling something about Ruby and work and he needs to come to the station to sign papers. And then she flees the scene of the crime, telling herself that she didn't do anything wrong. Not entirely convincing herself.

Ruby's smile is wide when Emma opens the door, her lips stretched nervously, and it is enough to forget all about James and focus back on Graham. Emma fills Ruby in, just enough to make it clear that Graham is in no danger but if something should happen the older woman is to call her immediately. Ruby agrees, before she sits on one chair and takes her phone out, long nails typing fast on her screen. Graham is still sleeping soundly, soft snores escaping him every so often, and Emma spares him one final lingering stare before she sighs loudly and grabs her keys. James opens the passenger door by the time she turns the key in the ignition, and the next ten minutes are spent in a tense silence neither is willing to break.

Once back at the station, she goes through the paperwork with him as quickly as possible, if only to get him out of her way. And of her sight, if not of her mind.

 

…

 

It is as unproductive as days can get, Storybrooke holding its breath while its sheriff is off the job. Emma spends a few hours going through paperwork and mindless tasks, until her patience wears thin and she decides to call it a day. She grabs the station’s cellphone, keeping it in her pocket just in case, and makes her way to Granny’s at four o’clock, a good hour before the end of her shift. Ruby is back behind the counter, the school over for the day and Mary Margaret back at home, and she smiles to Emma as she goes to sit at the bar.

“The usual?” she asks, and Emma nods.

A hot cocoa with cinnamon appears in front of her a few minutes later, and Emma blinks at it for long seconds before her exhausted brain registers what is happening. The first sip burns her throat, but soothes her mind.

Emma is about to bury her head in her arms once more and take a quick nap right there on the counter, when a call of her name startled her. She turns around on her stool to face Leo with Harper and the boy she recognises as Gideon/Not Gideon, the three of them sharing a booth and a serving of fries. Leo looks at her in earnest, and it takes Emma less than a second to grab her drink and go to sit with them around the table. Leo slides to the side to give her more space, and Harper nudges the fries toward her with a kind smile Emma can only return despite her tired state.

She doesn't mean to stare at Gideon/Not Gideon, not exactly, but he's sitting right in front of her and her curiosity gets the best of her in the face of exhaustion. He is cute, that much is certain, with clear eyes and floppy brown hair. He also looks like he would rather be anywhere else when he notices her staring, which makes Emma smiles to herself -- she does like the idea of making her brother’s boyfriend squirm, just a little. Said brother kicking her shin under the table when he notices, sending her an exasperated glare when his eyes meet hers, to which she replies with an innocent face.

“How's Graham?” he asks after another beat, priorities sorted once more.

“Ruby didn't call, so I'm guessing he's doing just fine. Was about to go back home, but I needed sugar first,” she replied with a nod to her cup. Ruby has only texted her once earlier today, to ask if she could use the kitchen and make pasta, so Emma had assumed everything was good. And with Mary Margaret and Henry back home now, she has no doubt Graham is being treated well.

“Can we come with you to say hi?” Gideon/Not Gideon asks, blinking at her like she's about to chop off his head if he speaks too loudly.

Emma wonders how many people know already. Probably everyone, because that's Storybrooke for you, and Graham is quite the popular man in town. For even the teens he sometimes catches drinking in the forest to worry about the sheriff says a lot about the impact he has on the little community in this little town. It warms Emma's heart to know how loved he seems to be.

“I don't know if he's awake yet,” she replies calmly. “But tell you what, you can come and visit tomorrow if you want?”

Gideon/Not Gideon -- gosh what _is_ his real name? -- turns wide eyes toward Leo, who shrugs in answer. “You can come early before we go to the movies.”

Emma turns in her seat to frown at her brother. “Since when are you inviting boys home?”

Leo looks at her like she lost her mind, while Gideon/Not Gideon turns a deep shade of crimson at the implication behind her words, mumbling something about _it's just a movie_ and _only friends_ and _I don't really have to come if it's a problem_. Which makes Emma feels like an asshole, but. Still.

“Oh, so now I'm not allowed to date?”

“It's not a date,” Gideon/Not Gideon squeaks in the background, not that either sibling notices when they are too busy glaring daggers at each other.

“I'm sixteen.”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

Leo laughs, loud and ugly, and Emma knows that this argument is pointless and she's just being stubborn but. It's her baby brother, and he thinks he's in love with the son of a fairytale character. He thinks _he_ is a fairytale character. She's allowed to freak out about his wellbeing and who he gets involved with and whether or not his heart will break once he realises that guy in front of him isn't who he wants him to be.

“Says the girl who went around Papa and Mama’s backs at seventeen with a guy who wasn't even her betrothed.”

Emma opens her mouth, her mind blanking for a moment as she is only able to focus on one thing. He knows. He knows who Henry’s father is. He has known all along. She blinks down at him, too flabbergasted to say anything, which is when Harper decides to shift in her seat and exclaims loudly, “She's not here today,” which manages to get everyone's attention.

“Speaking of the charming…” Leo mumbles angrily under his breath at the sight of David Nolan in front of them.

The older man swallows at all the teens and Emma staring at him, his eyes sweeping the room to find out that indeed whoever he's looking for isn't here. It takes Emma a second to realise he's looking for Mary Margaret, then one more second to wonder when exactly her life became that joke of a romcom movie. A headache is slowly making its way between her eyes, and she frowns as she downs her hot chocolate in three sips, liquid burning its way down her throat instead of sitting warmly in her stomach.

She stands up, and stares at Leo. “Let’s go home.” His mouth opens into a wordless rebuttal, but she doesn’t leave him the luxury of a reply. “ _Now_.”

Leo makes a point of sighing loudly as he stands up too, not that she can blame him for it — he’s a teenager acting tough in front of his boyfriend, after all. Like a peacock. He glares at her, before he grabs Gideon/Not Gideon’s chin and plants a kiss on his cheek, to make a point. The poor boy turns crimson, on the verge of a panic attack, even when Leo confirms to him that they will meet the following day to go to the movies.

Emma wonders how many awkward, silent car rides you can fit into one day.

 

…

 

Leo jumps out of the Bug before Emma even cuts the ignitions, slamming the door so strongly the whole car shakes for a couple of seconds. Emma follows him inside, swallowing back a yell when he almost slams the front door to the house in her face too before he stomps his way up the stairs.

Mary Margaret raises her head from where she's sitting at the kitchen table, helping Henry with his homework, quirking a surprised eyebrow at Emma. She shrugs her answer, before her attention is diverted to the living room where Graham sits. The big, fluffy blanket is still wrapped around his shoulders, but his face has its colours back and he offers her a crooked smile when their eyes meet.

Emma hesitates, just for a moment, before Graham nods at the stairs. “Go take care of your family first, Swan. I'm more than fine.”

Emma sways on her feet for one more moment -- the guy almost died, for crying out loud -- before her mind is made and she runs up the stairs after Leo. She finds him in his bedroom, door still ajar despite his earlier tantrum, and so she enters slowly. He glares at her from where he lies down in bed, but doesn't tell her to go away. Emma counts this as a victory.

“You know who Henry's father is.”

It is more of a fact than a question, and Leo dramatically rolls his eyes before staring up at the ceiling. He remains silent for a moment too long, having Emma wonder if he's offering her the silent treatment after all, before he replies. “Yes.”

She blinks, confused. “‘Yes’? That's literally all you're going to give me?”

Leo folds his arms on his chest, a frown marring his brows. “What else is there to say?”

“I -- what -- _excuse me_?” she finds herself stuttering. “Maybe who the guy _is_ , I don't know? My son -- _your nephew_ has a right to know who his _dad_ is!”

“What's the point when the guy is cursed into not remembering you anyway?”

Leo is standing up now, only a few inches away from Emma. It would be so easy to slap him for his insolence; she wonders if they ever got into fights as children, if they were violent toward each other. Probably, if their sanguine characters are anything to go by.

“Oh, so flirting with the guy who can't remember shit only works for you then?” she snarls back, perhaps with more sarcasm that she'd like.

Leo’s nostrils flair for a moment, his eyes hardening, and it is all Emma needs to know she stepped over some kind of line.

“Don't you dare, Emma! Don't you _fucking_ dare!” Tears gather at the corners of his eyes, bottom lip shivering, hands shaking. “My boyfriend -- the most beautiful and confident boy on this planet -- is cursed into thinking being gay is a sin and he should be ashamed of loving me. _Me_! The guy he's loved since he was twelve! You have no right to compare your situation to mine. So shut up with your bullshit, okay?”

Emma's mouth falls open while her heart drops to her stomach. She takes a step toward Leo, hand reaching for his arm, but he shrugs her off. “Leo…”

“Stop making everything about you. Everything has always been about you.”

He runs away once more before Emma has time to ask what he means, and the front door slams a few seconds later. With a loud sigh, Emma falls on her brother’s bed and runs a hand through her hair. The tears prickle at the back of her eyes when she takes a shaky breath, but she doesn’t let them fall, for someone else to enter the room at the same moment. With a startle, Emma rubs her eyes with the back of her hand, then look up to offer Graham a wavering smile. He looks ridiculous, one quilted blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, which helps Emma calm down until she finds it in herself to tap the empty spot next to her on the bed.

Graham sits down, leaning backward on his hands -- the blanket gets all tangled with his ridiculously tall body, making Emma snort a little. The sound makes him grin, before he tells her, “He’s just a teenager…”

The smile drops off Emma’s face as she shakes her head. “I think I really hurt him this time.”

She had never seen such anguish in Leo’s eyes before, not even when Mary Margaret hugged him last week after he aced a particularly tough sciences exam. Raw pain danced in his eyes when he started yelling at her, along with tears. Whatever happened, is happening, between him and this boy is affecting him more than he lets appear, and Emma curses herself for not noticing before.

“The boy worships the ground you walk on,” Graham replies, making Emma blush to the root of her hair. “Let him calm down, then have a quiet conversation with him. He will come around. Believe me, I know.”

Emma starts to reply -- she wants to tell him Leo doesn’t worship her as much as he was dragged along for the ride, that he seems to resent her for reasons she can’t even begin to understand -- but the conversation feels too heavy to have with the man who, for all intents and purposes, is still her boss. So she decides to focus on something else instead, throwing him a little smirk. “You, an angsty teenager? Yeah sure. You probably came to life as an old man, all terrible jokes and stupid vests.”

“You’re fired.”

The laugh bubbles out of Emma, so unexpected she slaps a hand on her mouth to keep it in. Graham sends her a sideway smirk, obviously proud of alleviating her mood. Once more, Emma has to remind herself of his critical state just a few hours before, and how he shouldn’t be the one taking care of her and her wellbeing. Quite the contrary. So she lets their playful silence linger for a few moments longer, before she asks, “How are you doing?”

A shadow passes in front of his eyes, his smile disappearing for good. When he talks next, his voice is smaller, almost scared. “You were right. About the wolf, I mean. I saw him and -- it was as if -- he knew me?” Graham frowns, eyes lost even when they fall on her face, before he goes on. “He came to me this morning and -- I don’t know, I touched him and -- I saw _her_.” Emma doesn’t even have to ask anymore; she knows. “There was blood. So much blood and, Mary Margaret was here too, but younger and -- I don’t know, things get fuzzy after that. All I know is she was here, and she was wearing one of those period drama dresses, and. I think I passed out after that.”

Emma leans forward, elbows on her knees, staring at one of Leo’s, comic books on the floor. Thor’s face in vibrant colours get blurrier and blurrier the longer she looks at it, until it’s only a mess of yellows and reds and blues, until it gets as fuzzy as her brain.

She didn’t realise she’d been still for so long until Graham touches her arm and makes her jump, so lost in her thoughts she had even forgotten he was there. Her eyes are wide when she turns them to him, meeting his anxious ones.

“Do you believe me?” he asks her, swallowing around the words, hopeful and vulnerable.

Emma is afraid she does.

 

…

 

In the end, Emma decides to give Leo a few more hours before looking for him, just long enough to give Henry his bath, have dinner with everyone, and drive Graham back to the shithole he calls an apartment. He looks equally pleased and annoyed that she keeps fretting over him all the way to his living room, until he’s had enough of her and pushes her out of his home with a few words about how he’s fine and she has other things to worry about. Which, he isn’t wrong. She just don’t want to think about those other things right now.

Except she doesn’t have a choice and, once Graham has rudely slammed the door on her face with a ‘See you tomorrow, Swan’, she can only sigh and go back to her car. A discrete text from Ruby later, she makes her way to Granny’s where, according to the waitress, Leo has been drowning his sorrows in chocolate milkshakes all evening long.

That is how she finds him when she enters the diner: sitting in the booth in the far corner with a bright pink straw in his mouth and his phone in his hands. She glances at the screen above his shoulder, only to see him going through his gallery, one picture at a time -- all of them of him, Gideon/Not Gideon and Harper, their faces squished together for grinning selfies. There is a particularly nice picture of Harper grabbing Leo’s face with both hands to press a sloppy kiss to his cheek while he makes a face, and another one of Leo and his boyfriend, both asleep with one’s head on the other’s shoulder. He smiles at that one, lingering on it for longer than he did the others, but his lips press into a tight line when Emma moves from his blind spot and sits opposite him in the booth.

He lets go of the phone, switching it off and putting it screen down on the table, but doesn’t move any further, straw still in his mouth and daggers in his eyes. Emma purses her lips, pondering on her next move, before she tries for a small, simple, “Leo, I’m so sorry.”

He scoffs, but his lips are trembling around the straw and his eyes are not as hard anymore, his anger escaping him like wisps of smoke. Emma takes it as her chance to move out of her seat and go next to him, suppressing a sigh of relief when her baby brother moves to the side so she can sit next to him. She grabs his hand where it lays on his knee at first, squeezing it, and it is as if something shatters within him at the touch, for he throws himself at her. His wet nose presses against her collarbone when he snakes his arms around her waist and holds on so tightly it steals her breath away -- his body all hard muscles, making him stronger than he looks.

“I miss him,” he says against her skin in a broken whisper, sob stuck at the back of his throat turning his voice into clipped little sounds. “I miss him so much.”

“I know, baby. I know.” She runs her fingers through his hair, holds him to her as if it would be enough to put the pieces of his heart back together. A single tear comes to wet her collarbone, soon followed by too many others, until Leo is openly crying in her arms. The longer it lasts, the more she wonders how long he managed to keep it in, to hide his pain from the world, to hide it all from her. Would he have ever confided in her if their argument hadn’t happened? Does he trust her so little that he would keep everything from her?

But it isn’t about her, Emma reminds herself. It is about her brother and his first heartbreak, and the fact that he is way too young to carry so many responsibilities on his shoulders. So she kisses the top of his head and hugs him to her, and wonders how she is supposed to mend a shattered heart.

It is another ten minutes before Leo slowly calms down, sobs turning into tears turning into loud breathing. When he finally sits straight again, it is with red cheeks and puffy eyes that he rubs with the back of his hand, and he doesn’t even complain about Emma brushing his hair out of his eyes. He looks exhausted enough to pass out but, still, Emma nudges him softly with a comforting smile. “Tell me about him.”

And he does.

He tells her about a boy who strains his eyes reading grimoires older than he is, the smell of burnt candles in his hair. He tells her about a first kiss, stolen between two shelves of a massive library, back pressed into the books and the taste of giggles on his lips. He tells her about the hours spent reading together, riding to the next village, lying on the grass and staring at the stars. He tells her of an orphan boy, no father and a lost mother, tells her of a queen’s kindness that sealed two boys’ fates. He tells her about the boy’s eyes, and his smiles, and his beautiful handwriting. He tells her about how useless he is with a sword, but still tried to learn because it is something Leo loves. He tells her about holding hands and dancing at balls and being upset that Mama’s engagement ring would be on Emma’s finger, because the emerald would be so beautiful on his thin, ink-stained hand.

He tells her and tells her and tells her, secret rendez-vous and stolen kisses and love letters and midnight dances, until a sad smile blossoms on his lips at the memories, until he stops sniffing but still looks entirely wrecked.

Emma caresses his cheek, and kisses his forehead. “If this boy loves you half as much as you love him, I have no doubt everything will turn out fine,” she tells him. It may not be the wisest words ever spoken, for Emma isn’t all that good with them, but it seems to have an impact on Leo, if the way he nods in reply is anything to go by. “And I’m sorry for… everything.”

Leo nods once more with a sniff, before he grabs his phone and puts it back in the pocket of his hoodie. Emma takes it as their cue to finally go home -- after an almost heart attack when Ruby gives her the bill for all the milkshakes Leo downed in only a few hours. She’s still glaring at him while he shrugs innocently by the time they leave the diner, her wallet lighter than it was when she arrived.

“I’m taking this off your allowance,” she threatens, pointing her car keys at him.

Leo grins softly by the other side of the Bug, folding his arms on the roof of the car. “You don’t even give me an allowance,” he reminds her.

“Great. Now you _owe_ me money.”

He opens his mouth to reply, the sarcastic words ready to roll on his tongue, when the sound of a car engine surprises them both. It is late enough that Storybrooke is empty of any living soul, most shops close until morning and only Granny’s sign lightening up the street in colourful neons. A slick, black and expensive-looking car appears around the corner, moving down the road until it parks behind Emma’s Bug.

The door opens, and out comes the stranger. Leo’s gasp behind Emma mirrors her own, silent reaction, for the man looks straight out of a J Crew advert -- long, beige coat and brown sweater over dark slacks and leather boots. His smile is as bright as his skin is dark, curly hair cropped short. When his eyes land on Emma, his grin turns bigger as if recognising her, which. She would remember such a handsome face, memory loss or not. Still, she frowns, and shares a glance with Leo; her brother looks just as confused as she is, which is never a good thing.

The stranger takes a few steps toward her, stepping into the light of the street lamp -- just enough for Emma to notice the dimples in his cheeks and the scar below his left eye. His grin is soft, gentle, when he asks, “Am I in Storybrooke?”

“Yeah?” she finds herself replying. Asking. Both.

He heaves a tiny sigh of relief, before he goes on, “Do you know if there’s an hotel nearby?” Leo kind of numbly points at Granny’s behind him, and the ‘bed and breakfast’ in red neons on its window. The stranger looks at it, then back at Leo with another devastatingly handsome grin. “Thank you, young man.”

He makes his way toward the diner when Emma calls after him, then stops and turns to look at her once more. She swallows around the lump in her throat before she says, “I didn’t catch your name.”

His grin turns more cheeky when he answers, “That’s because I didn’t give it, Emma.”

He disappear inside before she can even react, and then Leo is on her, grabbing her wrist and shaking it. He doesn’t stop even when she focuses on him, doesn’t stop even when he says, “How did he get in? Nobody comes to Storybrooke.”

She blinks. “How does he know my name?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked what you've just read and want to give me a little boost, please consider [offering me a coffee for my words](https://ko-fi.com/A456R1B) (and kudos!) (and reviews!!) (and love!!!)


	13. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Identities are revealed and lost friends are reunited once more...

Emma decides to bury the hatchet at breakfast the following morning. Getting out of bed was a miracle in itself, too exhausted to move for long hours. Oliver, the guy on call at the station during the evenings and the weekends, had texted her at eight to tell her everything was fine and she didn’t have to worry until Monday morning. Which, it’s nice, she guesses. He’s nice, all man-bun and freckles, despite the fact that he also happens to be the Mayor’s adoptive son. At least she doesn’t have to force herself to do a few extra hours out of guilt for what happened to Graham.

She goes downstairs for food after ten, something that happens, well, _never_. Henry is watching cartoons on the couch, Mary Margaret reading peacefully in the chair by the window. Both are still in their pajamas, because it’s apparently that kind of day for everyone. Leo is in the kitchen when Emma enters it, vaguely offering her a wave of his hand. A bowl of cereals and a mug of tea are in front of him, and he looks like he fell out of bed about two minutes ago. Emma knows the feeling.

She turns on the coffee machine, because she definitely needs more than hot cocoa to keep her going today, and slides two Pop-Tarts in the toaster, before she turns to her brother again. Stretching out her arm, she watches as he blinks at the folded bank note between her fingers. She has to shake her hand a little for him to grab it, and he does it with a suspicious glance her way.

“It’s not a movie date without popcorn,” she gives as a matter of explanation.

Leo’s lips twitch, just a little. “It’s not a date at all, apparently.”

“Just buy some popcorn for your boyfriend and shut up.”

Her brother is grinning now, putting the bill in his pocket. He’s the only one of them who bothered with a shower and proper clothes, apparently. “Thanks.”

“No bringing boys home until you’re eighteen, though.”

“And you ruined it.”

But he’s still grinning, and Emma smiles too. If those stories of him are true, her only goal in life is to give everyone their happy endings. Maybe it doesn’t have to be big; maybe it can start with making sure her brother is happy and in love, with a boyfriend worthy of him. And who is she to deny him happiness, after all?

They discuss which movie would be the best one for a first date-except-it’s-not-a-date around breakfast, before agreeing that Gideon/Not-Gideon is enough of a nerd that he very much would like something artsy instead of the latest blockbuster, and so Leo picks some old movie in black and white Storybrooke’s little theatre is showing today, instead of whatever superhero movie is on at the moment.

He’s smiling all through their conversation, looking more like the teenager he’s supposed to be and less like the hero’s sidekick he’s been since they met, and it makes Emma’s heart a little lighter. His happiness is contagious and, by the time she decides she needs a shower, and to check on Graham, she’s smiling too and forgetting all about yesterday’s mess.

She makes her way to Granny’s first, to buy her boss the disgusting tea he loves so much and a bunch of pastries, because she’s fucking nice and she deserves a raise, probably. Ruby is behind the counter as always, black-and-red hair pulled into a ponytail, long legs clad in matching leather pants. Emma pretends not to stare, not that Ruby notices much when she’s busy bickering with the Latina woman from David’s party.

“Emma!” she exclaims when Emma makes her way to the counter. “Tell California here that she’s wrong.”

The other woman lets out an exasperate sound, throwing her arms in the air. “How many times will I have to tell you my name is _Arizona_ , jesus. And I’m right, and you know it.”

“You’re wrong,” Ruby sighs. “I know my shit about wolves, okay?”

“What’s the problem?” Emma asks, even if she’s not sure she wants to know. It seems to be about more than just zoology trivia, and she wants none of it. But too late, she’s part of it now, for better or for worse.

“Alabama here,” (Arizona rolls her eyes and turns in her seat, muttering something rude) “is saying that wolf packs are led by an alpha male…”

“Which is _true_!”

“Which is wrong! They’re led by an alpha _couple_. Jesus, what do they teach you in school?”

Emma’s mouth opens a little as she blinks at one woman, then the other. They’re throwing daggers at each other, obviously fuming and, yes, she definitely doesn’t want any part of this weird mating ritual they seem to have going on. Not on top of all the drama with Leo’s love life, and all the drama Mary Margaret is hiding from them, thank you very much.

“Can I have a chamomile tea and two bear claws, please?” she says instead, changing the subject with very little finesse.

Ruby huffs, points a perfectly manicured finger at Arizona’s face and mouths ‘I’m right and you know it’, before she moves down the counter to prepare Emma’s order. Emma heaves a breath now that the tension created by the two women no longer surrounds her, and she taps her nails against the steel counter in rhythm with the song playing over the speakers, to pass the time. She’s muttering the lyrics too, when Arizona coughs to get her attention.

“Hottie has been staring at you for a while.”

Emma groans as she turns around, expecting blue eyes and an exasperatingly handsome face. Except, no. The face is definitely handsome, but the skin is black instead of white, the eyes a warm shade of brown, the smile more gentle than sarcastic. Mystery man from last evening definitely spent the night in town, and definitely wasn’t on his merry way this morning like she had hoped. Go figure.

With a sigh that hides a muttered curse, Emma turns around in her seat and makes her way toward the booth where he’s sitting. He doesn’t even pretend like he was not blatantly staring at her, the creep, and keeps smiling his kind smile when she stops in front of him. From up close and even despite the unflattering neon lights, he’s definitely more handsome than in the dark of the night. Not that it matters much, all things considered.

“You’re still here,” she comments in a tone she hopes is accusatory.

He simply grins back. “I’m still here,” he echoes.

Emma’s eyebrows rise of their own accord, her lips pressed into a tight line. She doesn’t have time for those games, or for entertaining a stranger who, according to Leo, shouldn’t even be here in the first place. All she wants is to know how he knows her name, because she’s damn certain she has never met him before, and the last thing she wants is a stalker following her all the way from Boston to Middle of Nowhere, Maine.

“Not exactly big fans of visitors here, are you?” he comments then, still smiling. Does he ever stop smiling?

“Not really used to people passing through,” she admits in a half-truth.

A little snort escapes his nose. Cute. “I figured. The Mayor didn’t seem too happy to see me. Guess tourism isn’t her priority.”

Emma forces herself not to groan and roll her eyes. Of course Madam fucking Mayor would see him, and make a show of being her usual delightful self. What else is expected of the human equivalent of stepping on a Lego?

“Yeah, well…” is all she finds to answer. Well done, Emma. Spectacular. “What led you to us anyway?”

He takes a sip of his drink – some weird tea, nice, he and Graham can be best buddies – and for a moment Emma thinks he’s going to avoid her question altogether. But then he puts his mug back on the table, and the annoying smile is back on his lips. “Just passing by, really. I love little towns like this one. I’ve always been fond of all the stories they contain.”

She squints at him, wondering for a moment if he’s openly mocking her or adding underlying meanings to his words. He can’t know. _Surely_ he can’t know. And yet, she’s still squinting, and he’s still smiling, and she didn’t have enough hours of sleep to deal with whatever is happening right now.

“Sure,” she replies, even if she’s anything but. “How do you know my name anyway?”

“You don’t remember?” he asks. “I’m hurt.”

She wants to tell him she definitely would remember that kind of face, but it would just sound shallow. She wants to tell him she doesn’t remember anything, but it sounds too personal. She wants to tell him, _should I remember you from this life or the one where I’m a princess prophesized to save the world_ , but it sounds too ridiculous, thank you very much.

So she doesn’t say anything at all. Which is probably better that way, truth be told. Not that she has time to reply anything, because then Ruby is calling her name and the little bell chimes by the front door, and she locks eyes with James when she turns around. He stops in his tracks, his eyes traveling between her and the stranger, once, twice, before a muscle spasms in his cheek and his eyes harden.

She wants to tell him that, whatever he believes is happening, it’s not it, but. Why would she say that? It’s not like she owes him anything. It’s not like she can still feel his breath on her mouth and smell his cologne, it’s not like her brain had replayed the scene from the bathroom a hundred times before she finally managed to fall asleep. Because that would be ridiculous.

“Interesting,” the stranger comments.

Emma wonders who would arrest her, if she were to sock him in the jaw.

Not that she will find out, for she makes a point of walking toward the counter and taking cup of tea and pastries from Ruby. The waitress knows better to ask her to pay, simply adds it to her note and sends her on her merry way with kind words for Graham. Emma offers her a tight-lipped smile in reply.

James is still standing by the door when she makes her exit, and she stops by his side for a moment. “Green doesn’t suit you,” she whispers before she opens the door.

She can feel his eyes on her as she makes her way to the car.

 

…

 

_She isn’t lost._

_She definitely isn’t lost, even if her pony has been trotting in circles for twenty minutes now and every tree looks the same. She is used to making her way through the forest to the Merry Men’s camp, has done it since she was old enough to ride her own pony alone. Roland was by her side, of course, because nobody would leave the crown princess wander the forest alone at the tender age of eight, but they decided to race down the path and now she can’t find him anymore. Or the camp. Or the way back to the castle._

_But Emma isn’t lost, she’s just – not exactly where she is supposed to be._

_It is more than fine, though. Brigands never come here, since it is well-known Merry Men territory, and Marian has been loyal to the crown for years now. If anyone finds her, they will be friends, not foes, and they will help her out. Not that she needs help, since she has established the fact that she isn’t lost. Just, somewhat, misplaced._

_It’s too early in the afternoon to use the stars to guide her, and she didn’t think to take a compass with her. Mama once told her how to make one with a needle, a cork and a cup of water, but she has neither of those things in her bag._

_It is another ten minutes of wandering around before Emma starts to feel restless. She throws one leg over her pony’s croup to jump down, before she grabs the reins and pulls the pony along. The little mare follows her without a moment of hesitation, trusting Emma’s choice more than Emma trusts her own instincts. Every tree looks the same, every path similar to the one before, and not a single wooden sign helps her find her way._

_Maybe she could admit to being lost, but it would be admitting defeat._

_She wonders if calling after Roland would be of any help at all, but the entire forest is silent around her. If Roland was looking for her, surely he would be the one to call her name. Emma wonders if he still hasn’t realised she is missing, or if he believes she will find her way by herself and doesn’t need his help (she doesn’t) or if he did it on purpose. Maybe he was a villain all along and his goal was to lose the little princess in the woods and let her die here. Maybe it is working. Maybe she should stop thinking about so many macabre theories._

_“Well, hello there.”_

_A little scream escapes Emma’s mouth as she startles, turning around to face the newcomer. She didn’t hear his steps, didn’t hear anything at all. Like he wasn’t here, and then he was._

_He’s smiling kindly at her, the kind of gentle smile she always sees on her papa’s lips. His skin is black – not as dark as Sir Lancelot’s but still darker than most people in her queendom – and he wears such a long robe that it brushes against the ground. He definitely wasn’t there, and then he was, because he definitely must be a wizard. He looks the part alright, if you ask Emma._

_“Who are you?” she asks, tilting her head to the side._

_The smile turns into a grin as the stranger answers with a question of his own, “Haven’t your parents taught you to say hello back?”_

_“My parents told me not to talk to strangers in the woods. Or any place.” She puts her chin up, just a little, in the way Leo says makes her look like a prissy little girl. Leo doesn’t know anything about anything beside his wooden sword too big for him._

_“Can you keep a secret?” the stranger asks her as he kneels to look her in the eyes._

_Emma knows mama wouldn’t like her to keep talking to someone she doesn’t know, but her curiosity takes over anyway. Emma loves secrets, and she’s very good at keeping them. After all, she is keeping the biggest secrets of all about herself, one she hasn’t even told Roland, or Gideon, or anyone. Only mama, and papa, and Leo know. She’s that good of a secret-keeper!_

_So she hesitates only for a second before she nods her head and takes a step closer to the stranger. He looks so kind, with the laughing wrinkles around his eyes and the grin; he won’t hurt her._

_“Everyone's a stranger until they’re not.”_

_Emma frowns, until a giggle escapes her. It makes the man_ _laugh_ _too, with big dimples in his cheeks and stars in his brown eyes. When she was younger, papa used to tell her the stories about Sir Galavant and his beautiful Isabella every night, before going to bed. She loved the stories and often dreamed of adventures of her own, with mysteries and pirates and songs. Emma wonders if Galavant looked like this, pretty and kind and always smiling._

_“One day, Emma,” he tells her. “One day we no longer will be strangers.”_

_“We’ll be friends?”_

_“Indeed. Once you’re older and ready to save the world, we’ll be friends.”_

_Emma frowns once more, wondering how the stranger knows her name as well as her destiny. She is about to ask him, when he stands up once more, brushing away the wrinkles in his robe. He points to the path leading west before she can say anything at all._

_“If you go this way, you will find the Merry Men’s camp in less than ten minutes.”_

_Emma looks at the path above her shoulder._

_When she turns her head again, the stranger is gone._

…

 

Graham looks way better already when she visits him, accepting the tea and forcing her to eat one of the bear claws. He promises he will be back to the station on Monday, but there is a shadow behind his eyes. Like he is still hiding something from her, not entirely saying the truth about what happened to him that day. Emma gives him time – if he ever wants to confide in her, he knows where to find her.

Instead, she gossips about Leo with him, and about their strange visitor. Graham asks a few questions, but it’s more to entertain her than out of sheer interest, and Emma decides to leave him alone. He needs his rest, after all, and she needs her weekend. It feels like forever since she last managed to have more than one hour with Henry on her own.

They buy greasy burgers at the White Rabbit and go to the park, before Henry decides that he wants to go to the beach. It’s starting to get cold outside, but her son wants to walk in the water one last time before winter, and Emma doesn’t have the heart to say no. So she sits on the sand and laughs at Henry’s little shrieks every time a wave comes to lap at his feet.

He jumps and runs and laughs, his cheeks red with excitement. And then he’s running toward her, sand in his hair and between his fingers, all laughter and smiles and happiness. Emma opens her arms to him, laughs too when he throws himself at her. For a moment, she forgets about everything else, everything that isn’t her son’s cheers and smiles. She kisses his cheek and he giggles, drops a sloppy kiss on her cheek too.

“Mom, can I ask you something?” he asks once his breathing is back to normal.

Emma frowns a little -- this can go a lot of different ways, knowing Henry, and she doesn’t know what to expect. “Sure, kiddo. What’s up?”

“Remember that Christmas when you got me the big fire truck?”

She does, indeed. She also remembers what Henry wanted, instead of the truck. From there, it’s not too hard to guess where this conversation is heading. Come to think about it, it’s almost surprising that it took him so long to ask at all. He was pretty set on the idea, three years ago.

“I remember,” she answers, waiting.

“You said… You said an apartment was too small and he would be too miserable, and we needed a house. But we have a house now, and I asked Mary Margaret this morning and she isn’t allergic and Leo isn’t allergic and she said yes and…”

“Okay, kiddo. Breathe.”

Henry takes a large gulp of air, before he offers her his most beautiful smile. “Can we get a dog?”

Emma knows, in her heart of hearts, that a million reasons to refuse exist. A dog is expensive. Henry might not know how to properly take care of it. He might get bored. They will go back to Boston eventually. And what then?

But Henry is looking at her in that way, the one where Emma doesn’t entirely feel like a failure of a mother, like she might actually do a decent job at this parenting shit and… Henry deserves to be happy. He hasn’t made proper friends quite yet, and she’s afraid he’s a bit lonely at times. Maybe he needs a furry companion, loyal and adorable.

“You know what,” she starts, and Henry gasps, happy and loud, “Let’s check with Mary Margaret first.”

Mary Margaret replies to her text with ‘as long as you don’t force me to take care of it’, and Emma guesses that it’s doable, between Henry, Leo and her. So she leads an overexcited child toward their car and ignores his never-ending babbling as they drive back to the Main Street.

She’s smiling by the time she parks in front of Granny’s, even more so when Henry runs toward Ruby. The waitress stops cleaning the outside tables long enough to blink confusingly at the small human yelling at her. “We gettin’ a doggie! We gettin’ a doggie!”

Ruby barks a laugh, and grins at Emma. “Good luck.”

Which, as it turns out, Emma needs. David is the one to welcome them when they enter the animal shelter, all too eager to show them the puppies they have in the back room. The smell is a tad too overwhelming, which makes Emma reconsider her choice for a second. That is, before Henry runs for one of the cages and presses his nose to the bars, laughing when the puppy licks him. She hasn’t heard him laugh like this in ages, and it makes guilt crawl up her throat in return.

She pictures the next hour to be full of puppy cuddles – or, worse, for Henry to find some Stitch-like creature or something. Instead, one dog throws himself at his cage repeatedly, getting louder by the second with his yapping and whines, until they have no other choice but to focus their attention on him.

He’s the kind of dog Emma has always found pretty – those Australian shepherds with the soft fur and mismatched eyes and pink nose. And, when David opens his cage, he throws himself at Emma like his life depends on it, jumping on her until she kneels down and scratches his ears and his belly. The dog is so excited Emma is afraid he’s going to pee on her at some point, but instead he just licks her hands and headbutts her stomach and is otherwise so adorable her heart melts on the spot.

“Mom! He likes you!” It’s a bit of an understatement here. Thankfully, Henry seems to be on board, and the dog is quick to focus his affections on the smallest human in the room. Which. Fucking adorable.

“Guess we have a winner,” David says with a smile.

Emma stands up and brushes the invisible dust on her pants, along with some white hair. Oh, Mary Margaret is going to hate her for this. “Guess we do,” she grins, upset flatmate-slash-landlady be damned.

David gives Henry a collar and leash, and boy and dog run around the shelter while Emma fills in the necessary paperwork. She pays for the shots and the other stuff the vet did to the dog, and buys some bowls, toys, and a nice cushion while she’s at it. She might be more into the idea of owning a dog than she thought at first.

David tells her some story about how sad the dog was and how he didn’t let anyone pet him, until David came back from the hospital. But Kathryn doesn’t like animals and David spends enough time around them as it is, and the dog is going to a good family anyway. All is well in the world.

Thankfully, the dog doesn’t throw up in her car, and Henry is still in the process of listing potential names by the time they come back home. He’s hesitating between Mister Scruffy and Pluto, because he still very much is a seven-year-old, and tells Mary Margaret so. The poor woman looks in horror as the dog runs around her kitchen, sniffing ever new smell and piece of furniture. He also seems to be happy to meet her, his pink tongue hanging low when she pats his head.

It has nothing on the way his head jerks up at the sound of the front door opening, though.

“Hey, we’re back! The movie was aweso--oh _fuck_. Wilby!”

Leo stops in his tracks and Gideon/Not Gideon, who was close behind, just bumps into his back. Not that the boy notices all that much, his eyes glued to the dog. The dog’s ears perk up, before he lets out a loud bark and throws himself at Leo. He jumps on the boy with all his strength, until the both of them are on the floor. Henry is quick to follow them in a tangle of limbs and fur and laughter.

It’s five long minutes of flailing around before Leo sits on the floor with the dog between his legs, arms wrapped around the animal’s neck and nose pressed to his head. His eyes are misty from unshed tears as he sends Emma the most grateful look she has ever seen in her life. She isn’t sure what she did, exactly, but whatever it is, she did it right.

“How about everyone goes to play in the garden while we get some hot chocolate ready for everyone?” Mary Margaret announces, ever the one to find the perfect solution to any tricky situation.

An old tennis ball is found in the cupboard under the stairs, along with a bright yellow frisbee, and everyone is sent on their merry way to play with the dog. The living room grows quiet suddenly, leaving Emma dizzy and confused. Yes, hot cocoa might be a good idea after all, she thinks as she makes her way to the kitchen.

Mary Margaret, bless her heart, is already taking the milk out of the fridge and pouring it in a pan, so Emma grabs a bunch of cups from the cupboard. She’s pouring two spoonful of cocoa powder into each mug when her flatmate speaks once more.

“Shall we talk about it?” she asks, with no need for further explanations.

Emma knows perfectly what she means, yet has no idea how to discuss it. Did she just give Leo his dog back? Is the dog cursed too? No, the dog seems to remember them all quite well, if his reactions to everything and everyone is anything to go by. But so… What even is going on? She has never been more confused in her life.

“I have no idea,” is all she finds to answer.

Mary Margaret is tactful enough to leave it there. Not tactful enough to keep her next thought to herself, though. “Shall we talk about the hickey on Fabian’s neck then?”

The groan out of Emma’s throat is loud and ugly. As eventful as Leo’s entrance had been, she hadn’t missed the purple bruise on the other boy’s neck, no matter how high his collar was. And, okay, Emma isn’t stupid -- she doesn’t remember being a teenager, but she can only guess what they are up to at that age. She just… didn’t expect Leo to get so obviously, well, _obvious_ with his not-boyfriend? Especially not after his tearful moment yesterday.

Whatever happened with Fabian (Fabian! That’s his name!) today, it definitely worked. Emma doesn’t know if she wants to be impressed or terrified, to know her teenage brother has more game than she does.

(But then again…)

“Can we not?” she whines.

Mary Margaret laughs, shaking her head to herself as she pours the hot milk into each cup. Emma wants to tell her, _This is your son. This is your son getting touchy-feely with this boy and you’re just laughing._ The thought scares her even more.

It scares her, by how easily it comes to her mind.

In how much truth it might hold.

What even...

**Author's Note:**

> Please, if you think of leaving a review about the chapter you just read, refrain from "more!" or "update soon!". I know those are not meant in a bad way, but I am more interested in your thoughts about what you just read and feel less pressured to actually write the following chapter.


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